Ode to the Rumor Mill

Blasted Rumor Mill why do you churn?
Though dark of night,
And wind too fierce,
Never you stop moving,
Never you stop producing.

In times of fair sun,
And mornings bright,
Your blasted churning seems to break the light.
You produce too much.
You work too hard.
For your successes are our falters.
Your work is our transgression,
And it never seems to be done.

Oh, dreaded Rumor Mill,
We besiege you now to stop.
Give us but a moment of silence,
A bit of peace to rest our ears,
So that at last we can hear the truth.