  These papers, of course, were filled with the fun— The Tribune, the World, the Times and the Sun, Each gave to the facts a different hue, And each one proclaimed its own statement true; Their big black bulletins chalked o’er in white, Gave all the latest news from morn till night; Ofttimes, ’tis true, they made a huge blunder— They must sell their papers—’tis no wonder! Plaster and whitewash is the stuff they use— The pen is but a trowel to abuse. But why complain? at least ’tis unavailing; Why, such mistakes are but reporter’s failing; If they won’t fib what bounty can they crave? We pay for what we want—not what we have. |
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