Once upon a Thursday dreary, press day making journos weary,
Looming deadlines bringing holes in many stories to the fore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, from behind there came some flapping,
"What's going on here, what is happ'ning, happ'ning on this press day morn?"
'tis but muttering,' said I, `tis but stuttering -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon page four.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From photo library of sorrow - sorrow for the lost picture -
Longed-for shot of Johnnie Walker that would make the story richer -
Make it glow for evermore.
At an hour before the deadline, subs were struggling for a headline
With the copy they were meddling, over typos they did pore
Vainly, deeply, did they wonder, why that face was set like thunder
Had they made some grammar blunder on a page they saw before?
“Christ, this really is a bore.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Subs,' said I, 'and hacks, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is Chief was napping, you see his strength is sapping,
At his keyboard he's not tapping, not tapping at his copy poor,
To those deadlines please bid adieu' - here I opened wide the door; -
'Don't hold your breath for that page four'
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