The chair he sat in, like a tarnished throne
Glowed still, masked behind a glass
Cloister in which incandescent Kliegs shined,
From which the golden cherubim peeped out,
His blue eyes focused on the questioning
(During the age of Liberace's candelabra).
But the network had enabled it,
Had rigged it so that no one could beat it--
His monumental knowledge, in profusion
Displayed, with a smile, behind shiny glass.
Yet in that vitreous vehicle, perfume
Of sweat and fear was liberally suffused
And drowned his senses in odors, unstirred by air,
Condensing on the window and ascending
To the hellish hot lights like candle flames
Beating down on once languid lacquered hair.
And a small but nervous cough rose to the ceiling.
He had some fear the coppers
Might bust him, but he still had time to atone.
Fans practiced idolatry of this man
Who for days behind the window had played
In their living rooms, on a slick Sylvania screen. . .

(Some charge that Philo's telly work's what birthed the thing,
But after its invention, Philo railed:
"There's nothing on it worthwhile, and we're not going
To watch it in this household," this inventor rues
And expresses his fears,
Saying, "And I don't want it in
Your intellectual diet," he informs
Those upon whom TV's been imposed.
Doesn't like what's on the air,
Although he had helped enable that air fare.
Makes nearly the same points
As Mister Minow, who'd also had his fill.
Unnerved by the tube when he helmed FCC,
Minow got in high dudgeon and did speak
To broadcasters: "What are you doing? What?!?")

. . .They thought all the man had to do was think
And then he could always rally
And keep his perch on the throne.
Ah, but the boys
Up on the execs' floor
Were fixin' the winnin'; it was their doin'.
It was not for nothin'
They
Kept golden Doren with old-man doyen from f*cking up by
Bluffing
If memory lapse should arise
Or if it weren't alive, an answer inside his head.
So,
Show's Romeo makes a Shakespherian gag,
And the swell gent
Sounds intelligent,
He takes a small bow. . .already knew
The answer because he was, alas, a cheat.
So when his forehead was creased with phony furrows,
It was a clever ruse.
But then it blew open,
The glass domain, the sacrosanct door,
And it displayed a game-show mess:
Blue-eyed Van Doren was a whore, the man the fans adored.
He'd once been mobbed as a cute egghead,
But he sold himself out for pelf.
Wasn't really a swine--
But the network wanted viewers glued to this smart
Guy. He got caught up, then doomed, in what soon would turn into
The biggest scandal involving shows on the air.
His wasn't the only faux show on the set,
Other fare laid bare: "Price Is Right" was fixed too.

Following on the heels of the mess with Freed, Alan,
And other dealers in payola scandals of the time,
In which pop-poacher promoters approached DJs and said,
"We will pay you to play our records." That said,
Instead of getting BJ's, these DJs on the take took
More than just a few dimes
To play platters discproportionally [sic]; they said,
"This is the slickest tune; you just can't
Access one better!" And soon its praises they were yelling--
That some lame song, unlike others, was unique
In the annals of popdom.
Lavish praise made the Feds do an about-face
To bust the payola racket, and they said,
"We're gonna crack down on this activity, by George!"
And the same brand of scrutiny started to take place in the game-
Show racket, and there the Feds said
They'd make an example of TV's VD, who said,
"Sorry I set a bad example for children."

More than just a few dimes
Changed hands--not mere chump change--to placate the Magnavox Mammon.
"Payola"'s an anachronism, but the practice never stopped.
More than just a few dimes.
More than just a few dimes.

"Goodnight, Chet," "Goodnight, David" Report the blight.
A retrospective sight:
"Goodnight and Good Luck." "My Favorite Year" "Quiz Show." Price wasn't right.