Liquidated through Lexical Larceny
(After the style of Lewis Carroll's "A-sitting On A Gate" from Through the Looking-glass)

I’ve grown to have a nagging doubt
Or two or ten or twenty
Concerning what to trust about
The Ministry of Plenty
Whose publications boast of stuff:
Tobacco, gin, and mansions,
In quantities more than enough
To pass poetic scansions.
Like “victory,” dactylic foot:
One accent, two unstressed;
Three syllables in which to put
The feeling of “oppressed.”

And so, I go about my toil –
or work, if you prefer –
attempting to extract and foil
the use of curse and slur,
two flavors of official swill
fermented from no facts:
semantic noises coined to kill
unorthodoxy – ownlife – till
no thought exists to fit the bill,
so proles can’t figure out the drill,
that they – meat placed upon the grill –
exist to feed the ones who fill
the air with proclamations shrill
exhorting dupes some blood to spill
“defending” Freedom’s deadly chill,
a profiteering poison pill,
some “medicine” to make us ill,
that did and does and always will
  obscure The Party’s acts.