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Dear Rupert

Tucker might be going down, but he's not going quietly

By Addison AlderPublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 2 min read
Dear Rupert
Photo by Ana Flávia on Unsplash

Dear Rupert,


I wish there were another way

to express the words I have to say.

So please accept my deep regrets,

that I must use rhyming couplets.


The judge, when he passed down my sentence,

decreed the mode of my repentance.

“The fitting punishment for your crime:

you must communicate in rhyme.”


“Cruel!” cried my lawyer. “And unusual!

This is deeply unconstitutional!”

I hung my head, began to sweat,

Because I know I'm no poet.


The hardest part of this technique

is I must think before I speak.

And, worst of all, that the name ‘Tucker’

Only rhymes with ‘motherfucker’.


I never dreamed this day would come

in our great land built on freedom.

I thought we’d stacked the Supreme Court

but, even still, my ass got caught.


So anyway, they set me free,

my speech gagged metaphorically.

An officer with a vigilant ear

is monitoring my logorrhea.


But listen, Rupes, I did my bit.

I spouted all that awful shit.

My inflammatory rhetoric

sent viewing figures stratospheric.


And while I’m no right-wing pretender

I toed the line of your agenda.

If I'd not read your autocues,

I’d still be anchoring network news.


But I see the bigger picture now:

The red wall is coming down.

Without right-wing voices just like me,

It’s end times for the GOP.


So, buddy boy, let’s not be coy

(‘tho writing this brings me no joy...)

I know where you hid your skeletons.

And I’ll drop ‘em like a thousand megatons.


As God’s my witness, I’ll bring you down.

I’ll leak like a faucet all over town.

My discretion has a price in gold.

What you earned, you owe me tenfold.


So let me lay out out what I want:

A Tampa mansion on the front,

A tax-free island near Tahiti,

Hush money and a Lamborghini.


Network news is getting shuttered.

Half the audience is cordcutters.

But I’m done kissing ass broadcasting.

My future’s clearly in podcasting.


You’ve not heard the last of me.

I’m just starting my Act 3.

So now’s the time to rise and pucker.

Your loyal puppet: Carlson, Tucker.

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About the Creator

Addison Alder

Writer of Wrongs. Discontent Creator. Weird tales to enthral and appal.

All original fiction. No reviews, no listicles. 👋🏻 Handwrought in London, UK 🇬🇧

Buy my eBooks on GODLESS and Amazon ☠️

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Comments (1)

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  • Susanna Kiernanabout a year ago

    I like the humour in this :D The structure is really tight. Well done.

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