THE PRESS
Was ever such unblushing harlotry,
Such sale of virtue in the Market place,
As by the Press? The red paint on her face
Is Degradation's mark. Alas, that she,
Born to bring forth the truth, still, is so base,
She kills her child and, then, to hide all trace,
Cracks bone by bone to dust, too fine to see.
O Press, poor harlot of the tyrant, Gold,