All journalists are prostitutes, all editors
are bent,
All media just institutes whatever their intent
Aimed at selling celluloid or vinyl as once was,
Their business now it's gigabytes of garbage all
because...
All art is merely 'content' just like news and views and
porn,
And shopping lists and amethysts and ads for the
forlorn,
Data dating, selling, mating, reproducing bytes,
Of anything to fill the bills to them it's all just
shite,
For sorting, grading, bills of lading, spreading on the
fields,
All of it just fertiliser, ups their annual yield -
"Nowt wrong with that, my likely lad, it makes the world go
round,
The paper mills and wordage stills spread wealth about the
town -"
Sure does my friend, but don't pretend philosophy or
art,
Are what you get from placing bets, investment has no
part,
In calling inspiration or identifying truth,
All you need's a balance sheet stockbroker's kind of
proof.
So put
your fishnet tights on and adorn the lamp-lit street,
A curly nylon wig and some thigh boots would be quite
neat,
Whistle at the sailor men, eye up the passing cars,
Flash your tits and shake your hips and wiggle that fine
arse,
But don't impart grand words ol' tart, or seek to rant and
preach,
Oldest profession ethics when alls you do is teach,
To stay alive, how to survive positions you enjoy,
Like up against the alley wall with any passing boy.
Andy Morley 21st April 2007
I do have
friends who are journalists. To them, I would say that this
pome was written about or inspired by journalists from LOS
ANGELES CA. Of course it doesn't apply to UK
journalists.