“Are our presses rolling
Like thunder on the run,
The giant reels still spinning
Now I’m dead, my son?”

Aye, the presses thunder
The reels are larger now,
The ciculation’s way up;
Best you don’t know how.

“Are the headlines screaming
In type as black as sin,
And do our rivals weaken —
You’d never let them win?”

Aye, the tupe is blacker,
Four colour now — the best!
We shittled down the linens
And bough up half the rest.

“Are the worms still squirming
That coven No.10,
Ministers still toadying
And leaking like a pen?”

Aye, they leak like buckets
With bottoms full of shot;
But now we breed ‘celebrities’
To fatten for the pot.

“Are our readers baying
for Foreigner and Jew;
do we still pay no taxes,
And slander fools who do?”

Aye, we finger scapegoats,
But that’s not down to me;
The minute you ceased breathing —
I sold the company!