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LE SCANDALE MURDOCH:

A FEAST FOR THE BARD

Ah, Bard, wouldst thou could be this day in thy merrie olde England!

At Stratford-upon-Avon, thy pen wouldst fly furiously over folios blank, describing a plethora of dramatis personae picked right from the pages of thine own London’s making.

‘Twouldst be no need to send thy mind back to rake the roofs of monarchs of yore, or to Scotland’s highlands in search of some regal whore.

Neither wouldst thou have need for a thane’s dank Denmark dithering, because of England’s own tree-of-events’ withering.

For, that tree now is ablaze with fruits so bright they pierce London’s foggy haze.

One Murdoch, a king in his own right, now has come face-to-face with an unexpected fight; one that, without doubt, will his undeserved reputation now blight.

Oh, Bard, thy instincts wouldst be a-twitter; the tale encompasses the best of the fodder of thy vast litter.

Information vehicles, most of which wouldst be unknownst to thee, are part and parcel of a huge, global tree, planted by said mogul in soil of hearth and foreign, a tree now ugly scarred by that hearth’s too-hot iron.

The conspiracy is deep, interwoven and broad.

Its virtue is cheap, tainted with official fraud.

In every crevice, conspirators huddle.

Scotland Yard, too, is deep in this muddle.

Redundancies are rife; criminality abounds.

Murdoch is a fox, just ahead of the hounds.

His empire is crumbling; his scion is weak.

They warned of his fitness, his unsharpened beak.

Ah, Bard, the material would make thy tongue water!

Ye Olde Globe would delight in this field of intrigue.

It hath all of the elements – e’en Death’s mystery weaves.

But, alas, Bard, with all this great stuff, none wouldst believe thee – they’d say ‘twas a bluff!