Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3831/The Freedom of the Press
Waking at six, I lie and waitUntil the papers come at eight.I skim them with an anxious eyeEre duly to my bath I hie,Postponing till I'm fully dressedMy study of the daily pest.Then, seated at my frugal board,My rasher served, my tea outpoured,I disentangle news officialFrom reams of comment unjudicial,Until at half past nine I riseBemused by all this "wild surmise,"And for my daily treadmill boundFare eastward on the underground.But, whether in the train or whenI reach my dim official den,Placards designed to thrill and scareAffront my vision everywhere,And double windows can't keep outThe newsboy's penetrating shout.For when the morning papers failThe evening press takes up the tale,And, fired by furious competition,Edition following on edition,The headline demons strain and striveWithout a check from ten till five.Extracting from stale news some phraseTo shock, to startle or amaze,Or found a daring innuendo—All swelling in one long crescendo,Till, shortly after five o'clock,When business people homeward flock,From all superfluous verbiage freedComes Joffre's calm laconic screed,And all the bellowings of the townQuelled by the voice of Truth die down,Enabling you and me to winTwelve hours' release from Rumour's din.