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.