And mourn that the skies don't fall
And tear my sack cloth analyzing
The magnification of the small.
For, though the streets don't run with blood,
And our capitol doesn't burn
And our people don't perish (mostly) in flood
Nor linger in Babylon awaiting return;
When one city pastor can sway ev'ry tree
With a gale of warm testimony
Then the land where we dwell, our gossipocracy,
Is in thrall to the small and the phony.
TRIVIAL, adj. Newsworthy.