By Joel Thurtell
[paypal-donation]
You never know who scotched the tale,
Only that it didn’t run.
No space! No space!
You know that’s bull.
You never know why the yarn got spiked,
Only that it didn’t run.
No space! No space!
What a load of crap.
One day your story was the greatest thing in News.
Talk of the City Desk,
Headed for Pulitzerdom.
Next thing you know, it’s dead,
A thing forgotten,
Played down, down,
Down, down, down,
No space! No space!
Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Can’t bring it up
Without shaming those honchos medios
Who patted your back
And told you what a sleuth you are
Until some bigger boss said:
It ain’t.
Their creed says power makes right,
Power makes news,
And power kills news.
So now for shame they bury
The news they thought they’d break.
No space! No space!
The eternal lie,
But careers are made on bunk like that,
Tales that glow with talk;
They yack in the morning meeting,
And glow,
They yack in the afternoon meeting.
The big stories are talkers,
That glow whether they matter, or not.
They’re hoots,
They’re laughers,
Editors love them.
Raises come from stories like that,
Bosses’ raises.
They please the big muck-a-mucks.
But let me tell you,
The stories that die,
Good ones,
Real tales,
The ones without power
That threaten power —
They hold truth —
(No space! No space!)
Well, woe unto him or her who tries
To breathe life into some fine tale
Killed by the big guys.
Oh, the newsies love to yammer
About their First Amendment rights;
They act like nobody matters
But journalist blatherskites.
They think they’re the hottest stuff.
But there’s always a boss above,
And above that boss the advertisers
Who call the bosses’ shots.
If your tale’s not scotched by
Business guys,
The killers are politicos,
Or simply those who know too much
Of editors’ where- and what-abouts.
Be sure of one thing, though,
Who killed your tale?
That’s a tale
You’ll never know.
Drop me a line at joelthurtell@gmail.com
