Credit: Appalachian Mountain Band

An Ode to Maggie Haberman
Maggie Haberman struts with a crown made of lies,
A queen of the bylines with hell in her eyes.
Too proud to admit what her ego devours,
She fabricates a world from her gilded glass towers.

Her words are sharp daggers disguised as critique,
Each phrase a vendetta, vindictive and bleak.
She hunts with her pen, and her rage never tires,
Feeding the progressive mob with her witch-burning fires.

She envies the truth she can never obtain,
So she poisons the facts in a jealous refrain.
Coveting voices that challenge her spin,
She drowns them in ink, lest the people might win.

Lust for acclaim, for the spotlight’s glow,
For whispers of power from those in the know.
Her moans are the clicks and the viral ascent,
Each story a sniff of the government’s scent.

Greedy for scoops that were never quite real,
She trades in illusion and spins every deal.
Each headline a coin, each rumor a check,
Her journal’s integrity lost in the wreck.

She gorges on gossip, a glutton for spin,
Each trough of deceit finds her snout deep within.
Truth is a garnish, illusion the feast,
She fattens on narratives cooked for the beast.

Too lazy for truth, too tired to dig,
She copies, she pastes, and sequels like a pig.
Why verify sources when fiction sells best?
She naps in her bias and lets lies do the rest.

Her ink is the bile of a rotted regime,
She prints what they whisper, then scrubs it all clean.
The sin isn’t writing — it’s playing the saint,
As she draws with manure and sells it as paint.

So here lies the scribe in her trough of deceit,
Degenerate swine with manure on her feet.
Not fit for the barnyard, much less for the pen,
A sub-human demon in the service of sin.