Song Of The Tabloid Hack

You know the fellow is a dud,
And so do I, so throw some mud,
And if that doesnít do the trick,
Throw more until you make it stick.

Itís no use arguing because
You know heíll only make you cross,
His answers to your questions show
Heís slippíry as they come and go,
The publicís also well aware
Of how this knight so debonair
With all the parries to your probes
Is wolf dressed up in sheepskin robes.
So smear him well, and good, and thick,
Throw mud until you make it stick.

This technique works extremely well,
You give the little bastard hell,
Make innuendoes that heís queer,
And smile a disbelieving sneer
If he should say his lady wifeís
The only woman in his life.
Dig up some dirt from long ago,
Something irrelevant, but lo!
Thereís no such thing, youíll loudly cry
When someoneís in the public eye.

Like all good journalistic hacks,
Youíll make an issue out of tax,
Has he been late with his returns?
That makes for interesting yarns,
And yarns, though microscopic thin
A web of steel can swiftly spin
To trap the most elusive fly;
It only takes one little lie,
And if he doesnít trip, but scud
Across all this, then throw more mud.

Throw more and more and more and more,
Throw mud and shit and filth galore,
Thereís only one of him, but we
Are many, powerful and free,
Free as a bird of air, the press,
To lie and smear without finesse,
Or with the greatest subtlety
To slate the bastard on TV;
And if he still looks span and spick,
Throw more mud: some will surely stick.

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