IX.
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.