(written on 8 May 2006)
Two young reporters, like all their kind,
yearned to escape their daily grind.
Keen they were, enthusiastic,
and prayed they’d clinch that scoop fantastic.
Little did they dream that fate
would lay before them Watergate,
and all the President’s men’s skullduggery
best described perhaps as thuggery.
Bob typified the dogged sleuth
who’d dig ‘til he unveiled the truth.
Investigation was his strength;
for a story he’d go any length.
He’d probe the White House fabrications,
delve into Nixon’s aberrations,
uncover every lie or prevarication
and expose a rotten administration.
So Bob and fellow newsman Carl
vowed Tricky Dicky to ensnarl.
Lucky for them a mole appeared
with a modus best described as weird.
He’d meet with Bob in a garage under ground
where his whispers did not make a sound.
He earned the nickname of Deep Throat
and he gave our Sherlock cause to gloat.
Bob and Carl gained widespread admiration
for what they did to save the nation.
They exemplified steadfast persistence
as they wore down editor Ben’s resistance.
So President Nixon was thrown out –
a mighty triumph without a doubt.
A task not easy to repeat
on a humble newsman’s normal beat.
New fields of effort they had to find
and leave their news desks far behind.
Carl’s modest ways stayed as of yore
while Bob’s huge ego was now a bore.
To young journalists he was quite the hero,
a role he took to like De Niro.
A real colossus he became,
a legend now of worldwide fame.
Made managing editor at the Post
he seemed to vanish like a ghost.
Now his by-line seldom would appear
and co-workers soon began to sneer.
They asked wherever he could be found
and why he was never seen around.
Eager hacks set out to trace him
and it did not take them long to place him.
He was seen as he left in a rush
from an office occupied by Bush.
The guy who hated presidents’ men
had now become just one of them.
The White House was in disrepair
as leaks oozed out from everywhere.
All around were phone call buggers
when what they needed were good pluggers.
George W. considered him a chum
and how could poor Robert not succumb?
He was handed info cherry-picked
and it dawned not on him he’d been tricked.
He played his cards close to his chest
and his editor did not keep abreast,
He was gathering all that he could muster
for inclusion in his next blockbuster.
He had once reported all the news
but now felt he could pick and choose.
He would decide which well-cooked brownie
to feed to editor Len Downie.
He appeared with awe-struck Larry King
who allowed him his own praise to sing.
His methods, once investigative,
had now become accommodative.
When asked if he felt any blame
for keeping mum on Valerie Plame
he denigrated the prosecutor
though some others called him a straight shooter.
There are many who have grown quite leery
as every word of his they query.
Why some still pay to hear him lecture
is only open to conjecture.
He no longer can be called a model
when all he says is now just twaddle.
But remember this, you who would berate him.
Bob’s still a reporter, though now verbatim.