You Are Fake News
By Jon McNaughton
Come look at this commotion, and see what I see,
The White House Press Corp treated marginally,
They cramp and they jockey for a place at the chain,
In the hope of asking President Trump a little something.
Something big, something small,
Anything scandalous, or nothing at all.
A chance to make their mark on the news,
With a moment of glory to bolster their views.
CNN, New York Times, the channels of the left,
ABC, Washington Post, all are bereft,
Of any factual journalistic or honorable slant,
They cover the White House with a corruptible bent.
They can no longer gather in the briefing room,
For White House correspondents were lowered the boom.
Grandstanding muckrakers, as they were called,
Chose to be rude, interruptive, and appalled.
Booted to the South Lawn to stand in the sun,
Like clowns in a circus, without a mike for each one.
Now they cramp and they jockey for a place at the chain,
In the hope of asking President Trump a little something.
Here comes the President Commander and Chief,
It’s Donald J. Trump to give them a brief,
What will he say? Will he tarry and choose,
To answer their accusations, questions, and spews?
He stops on the asphalt and looks over the fray,
The Marine One is waiting to take him away,
They shout and jockey to make him respond,
But President Trump only answers those he’s called on.
He looks at the correspondents and gives them a stare,
I would answer your question and always be fair,
But you’re clowns, pantomimes, and innocuous gloats,
Pompous, grandstanding, obnoxious showboats.
Now they cramp and they jockey for a place at the chain,
In the hope of asking President Trump a little something.
But he glares at them, stares at them, and will politely refuse,
“I will not speak to you because YOU ARE FAKE NEWS!”
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