But they ought to mark a ticket at a game of pak-a-pu,
Or assume the thankful mien of holiness,
Since the Managing Director found them other work to do
Than that of churning “copy” for the press!
For the misbegotten smudger wends along his inky way,
Haply dodging past the commonplace and trite
As he follows on the faintest scent of ‘incident’ by day,
And he notes it on his washing bill by night;
But what time the Sunday Sun comes out from press, all piping hot,
He is tempted sore to sky the blanky wipe,