“We can’t allow you heroes,” say the Fleet Street men of straw,
“our duty’s to expose them, their frailties and flaws.
We cannot sanction heroes, there’s no such thing as heroes,
we don’t have national heroes any more.
Okay, we may destroy him, his marriage, his career
with half-truths, innuendo, with fabricated smears,
but we don’t yield to sentiment, to candour or finesse,
Press Freedom can’t be fettered by fairness or largesse.
The dignity of just one man concerns us even less.
Reproach and accusations must fall on deafened ears
when we weigh emancipation against a family’s tears.
We’ll ferret out some secret, some old associates,
there’s always plenty willing, they come to us, they just can’t wait.
To get their noses in the trough even so-called friends will cough
if we’re prepared to pay enough.”
He’ll wake to banner headlines: – ‘HOW HE BROKE MY HEART!’
from some vicious, avaricious, little kiss-and-telling tart.
They’re all well-versed in calumny but tabloids are the worst,
they may not always tell the truth but they will print it first.
They say, “You can’t have heroes, there’s no such thing as heroes,
there’s no demand for heroes, it’s not nineteen forty-four,”
then wonder why there’s no respect from youngsters any more.