This was extended from an old post of mine.

(for reference, TS Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

Let them go then, go and lie,
To the people; the press supine with tight shut eyes
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let them go, with fatuous half-truths and deceits
The fact-checkers in retreat.
Through the ballrooms and lobbies of Washington hotels
And dim-lit restaurants with oyster-shells:
No one challenges the tedious arguments,
The cynical intent.
Nobody asks a probing question…
Oh, do not ask, “That’s not true, is it?”
Let them go and make their visit.

In the green room the interns come and go
Talking of Marco Rubio.

The yellow hair that curled itself upon the buffoon's head,
The yellow wisp that arched and flexed on the buffoon's head,
Hissed sweetly to the howling fringe of the party,
Called out to myriad fools "Here is someone to hate",
Let slide off its back the concerns of normal candidates,
Slipped by the guardians, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it had befuddled everyone,
Coiled itself once about the country, and flicked its tongue.

And indeed there will be time
For the simpering hagfish that cruises our dark streets,
Oozes his slime upon our TV screens;
There will be time, there will be time
To shake the hands to meet the faces he must meet;
To mislead and lie about murder, about the state,
And time to piously preen in all the churches in the land
To snidely insinuate about Her mate;
Time for losses and time for wins,
And time yet for a hundred interviews,
And for a hundred speeches from Mr Cruz,
Before the voting even begins

In the green room producers come and go
Talking of Marco Rubio.

And someday there will be time
To wonder, "Pataki? Who?" and, "Santorum? Eew!"
Time to look back and list those not so few,
Who have fallen (or should, already!) to the buffoon —
(They will say: “It's still early, he cannot win!”)
My Morning Joe, their hollers doubting that he is really in,
The hosts rich and modest, all asserting he can not win —
(They will say: “But his hair! It seems so thin!”)
Do I dare
Dispute the punditry?
In a minute there is time
For predictions and revisions which a cycle will unwind.

But we all know them all already, know them all:
We know their speeches, tax plans, all those pols,
We have measured 2015 with endless polls;
We know the voices braying of the coming pall
Above the music that was not approved.
        So what should I assume?

And we have known the lies already, known them all—
The lie delivered in that focus-grouped phrase,
So carefully formulated, massaged to convince,
Or at least confuse, to baffle, or to faze
Then how should we begin
To sort through all the lies and half-truths they have said?
        And which media to consume?

And we have known the faces already, known them all—
Faces that are old and wrinkled and white and bare
(But in the spotlight, bronzed, smoothed and fair!)
Is it boredom or distress
That makes me so digress?
Faces lying about a policy, or lying about a law.
        And should we then assume?
        And when will it all end?

Should he say, "I have walked alone though the common streets,
And seen Mexicans raping, Muslims plotting,
Chinese stealing, Persians refining" ?

He will admire a fine Iowa hog
Grunting in bliss in a pen at the State Fair.

And will it have been worth it, after all,
Will it have been worth while,
After the speaking and the lying, so many unchecked 'facts',
After the polling, after the caucus, after the years of caustic rhetoric—
Yet still, still so much more ? —
Is it possible to just say what they mean?
But no, still the magic lantern throws their lies and slanders on our screens:
Will it have been worth while
If one, shouting into a pillow or turning off the news,
And turning toward the window, should say:
        “That is not it at all!
        That is not what we need, at all!”

I grow old ... it grows old ...
I shall swear at the TV as the days grow cold.

Shall we leave the noise behind? Just put on Eat A Peach?
Can we just order pizza, and renounce this endless screech?
I have heard that other countries get this stuff done in weeks.

I do not think that you will listen to me.

We have heard them lying upon the stage
Seen their strange stiff hair in waves blown back
Felt the ill wind blown from faces white and black.
They have lingered in our living rooms on our TVs
And still ten months until this winds down
Till the new voices wake us, until the next round.