I’m grateful for the fourth estate, the people of the Pen,Who turn their backs upon the Sword, the arrogance of men,That seek the Truth through fog and trial, the conflicts cruel of war,Who follow thin Corruption’s thread that leads to Lucid’s door.
And drawn unto the brink they have the courage to stand fast,Construing, every day, the present soon devolved to past,They write the History of us, the citizens who need,To gaze and see the replication of our paltry deeds.
Those rare amongst us all who stand against the storm of rage,Who capture every nuance of our actions on each page,To struggle long and learn the craft, the representing toll,Each tangle to be simplified, a journalistic role.
Too often ridiculed or spit upon by humankind,They are the ones who offer the reflection of our minds,Delivering the messages that we don’t want to hear,Then force us all to face the elements of our own fear.
And so these Angels of newsprint who lift this brutal onus,For us, the ones who...
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