There’s a certain kind of journalist
Or monster who wears a journalist’s jacket
While sniffing the panties of murdered children.
The newspapers had all the facts.
The vigil would tell them nothing they didn’t know.
But still they swarmed upon soft candle-based grief
With their bright camera lights and their microphones.
My friend’s dad touched one on the shoulder
And kindly asked for privacy.
Please, he said, our community needs to grieve.
She screamed and accused him of assault.
Now whenever I see this warm, brilliant man,
Who sent electricity through pickles
To entertain and educate his children’s classmates
And now does the same for his grandchildren
I think, there he is, The Pickle Blaster
And jokingly add, The Enemy of The Free Press.
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