SONNET: THE JOURNALIST

HE called for blood, and would not shed his own, He sat at ease, and sent young men to die With his strong pen; he was the enemy Stalking at noontide, by whose hand were sown Rank tares among us—love of country grown To poisonous cant, and blind hostility. He forged a chain to lead the people by, A chain of words, rattling with strident tone. He battened on men’s selfishness and fear, He pulled the strings that shook their statesmen down; The people were content to sit and hear His platitudes, and tremble at his frown, And followed him with meek attentive ear Till His Mendacity assumed the crown.