The Newspaperman

He was a newspaperman in the morning.
He was a newspaperman at night.
In between he became a nobody.
He always kept out of sight.
He wore rags for his clothes.
And skin for his shoes.
His face was grimy and rugged.
His voice only shouted the news.

Extra, extra, read all about it.
See what the papers say.
Extra, extra, read all about it.
Another war started today.
Nine men died, nine women cried.
It's all inside.
The newspaperman cried.

When his spiel was over and his papers sold.
And the cash counted in his Kitty.
He sauntered away, in his usual way.
Though the streets of his city.
Thinking of riches and satin stitches.
In the clothes he'd like to wear.
Instead of being dressed in rags.
And shouting out his wares.

Extra, extra, read all about it.
See what the papers say.
Extra, extra, read all about it.
A bank was robbed today.
Three thousand stolen, a mans head was swollen.
It's all inside.
The newspaperman cried.

Back in his flat,
all rags removed.
He glanced through a Playboy magazine.
And into a world, full of girls.
It added generously to the newspapermans dream.
Cologne covered bodies smell well.
Better than the newspapermans sweat.
And the rich never need.
To shout out news in the wet.

Extra, extra, read all about it.
See what the papers say.
Extra, extra, read all about it.
What a man inherited today.
A couple of grand, to a newspaperman.
It's all inside.
The newspaperman cried.

by William H Whelan

Comments (1)

That's a new one I haven't read before Bill. Very good too.