"Stop the Presses" -- a song of defiance

A friend of mine wrote this, and he gave me permission to post it here. I think it speaks pretty clearly a lot of what's inside of so many of the people who post here and work in journalism.


"Stop The Presses"

You can stop the presses
You can lock the doors
You can turn your back
’cause you don't care anymore
You can take our jobs,
but you can't take our passion
It's what we'll always do
in some form or fashion

You can rationalize
that it had to be done
You can look in our eyes
and pretend that it stung
You can say that you're sorry
in a faux concerned voice
But your actions speak louder
and they drown out the noise

So count up your dollars
with blood on your hands
and abandon your conscience
as profits demand

In a moment of silence
don't strike up the band
Hold off on that obit,
the last one you planned

We're down but not out;
this is not our last stand
The fight is not over
Hell, it just began

In those few final hours
what went through your mind,
your many stock options
of the ones left behind?
Are we still on your radar?
Are we more than a blip?
Does it matter to you
we went down with the ship?

When the last box is packed
and our work here is done
We can hold our heads high
and remember the fun
We won't cry in our beer,
but we will raise our glasses:
"Karma's gonna get ya;
until then, kiss our asses!"

So count up your dollars
with blood on your hands
and abandon your conscience
as profits demand

In a moment of silence
don't strike up the band
Hold off on that obit,
the last one you planned

We're down but not out;
this is not our last stand
The fight is not over
Hell, it just began

When you sleep deep at night
and dream of your future,
we think of our hopes,
our grip getting looser
You'll wake up tomorrow
with few wants and needs
We'll wake up tomorrow
just more victims of greed

There's no accounting
when you cut and run
But you'll have to answer
when it's all said and done
And how will you respond
to this important one:
Just account for your soul
and you may enter, my son

You can stop the presses
You can lock the doors
You can turn your back
’cause you don't care anymore
You can take our jobs,
but you can't take our passion
It's what we'll always do
in some form or fashion

So count up your dollars
with blood on your hands
and abandon your conscience
as profits demand

In a moment of silence
don't strike up the band
Hold off on that obit,
the last one you planned

We're down but not out;
this is not our last stand
The fight is not over
Hell, it just began

 

Tell your friend to find a date.

 

I wish I'd written this.

 

Find a hobby to give you a break from posting on here.

 

Sounds like you're a giant asshole, so you will fit right in here.

 

Well, that went well.
Thanks for the post, ijag. Good stuff.

 

It's a start, but I have to start dressing badly more often in order to fully fit in.

 

If only you could ... if only you could.

 

Oh look, another stereotype about journalists.

And another person for the button.

 

Jobless in action

 

Nice piece of writing. My compliments.

 

You first. Preferably something along the lines of playing in traffic or juggling rusty chainsaws.
**************

My compliments to your friend, IJAG. Nice work.