A Toast to Journalists

Let's hear it for our propagandists,

The people who bring us the news.

Unencumbered by troublesome scruples,

They reflect only compromised views.

There once was a time we admired them.

We thought they were principled fighters,

But what we see now is more worthy

Of the Union of Soviet Writers.

That they should be liberty's guardians

Is truly a shame and a pity,

These shills and these flacks,

These stooges and hacks,

These sold-out scribes

Who report on the tribes

Who rule from our capital city.

Let's hear it for news commentators,

Those masters of punditry,

Who share with us all their opinions,

Wide-ranging from A down to B.

Standing right there in the spotlight,

They could do some significant things,

But we'd sooner expect wooden puppets

To dance without handles or strings.

Impressing no one but their colleagues,

They're not even learned or witty,

These shills and these flacks,

These stooges and hacks,

These sold-out scribes

Who report on the tribes

Who rule from our capital city.

Let's hear it for all those reporters

Who learn how the contest is played.

If they will just write what's expected

They can be handsomely paid,

But most garner practically nothing

And eventually fall off the ladder.

The losers depart mostly wiser,

While the winners grow gradually sadder.

Let's hear it for all those survivors

Whose road to the top is not pretty,

These shills and these flacks,

These stooges and hacks,

These sold-out scribes

Who report on the tribes

Who rule from our capital city.

David Martin

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