for Robert Peston
You might liken me
to a urinary tract infection,
in that my job is to prevent
truth trickling out too purely,
but you’re worried such a comparison
might lead to threatening letters
from solicitors acting for the bacilli
who’ve taken up residence
in Mrs Irondrawer’s highly thought of bladder.
Reality is I’m worse,
will not be cured by mere penicillin.
For I am a journalist,
help people forget
things those who operate me
To keep my thoughts pristine
each night I pay to have my head
dipped in preservatives, claim
it back as miscellaneous.
I’m the carbon monoxide that lulls
those who inhale me to a stupor.
I respect Prince Andrew’s privacy,
ensure certain names never cross
the average arsehole’s mind.
I’m why you know nothing
of the Zinoviev letter
or Emilie Oldknow
and after this must Google them.
I make sure you think
Julian Assange is where he belongs.
Anyone I call a statesman
should immediately be arrested.