The Friday night Colorado talk shows were essentially a dirge for big city newspapers sung by active and retired journalists. In that spirit, we provide a sad song:
"As I hiked the trails of Colorado
I walked out in Denver one day,
I spied an old newsboy, all wrapped in white linen
Wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay."
"I see by your notebook, that you are a newsboy."
These words he did say as I slowly passed by.
"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
For I'm shot in the foot, and I'm dying today."
"'Twas once in the press room I used to go by,
'Twas once in the news room I used to be gay.
How my fingers did fly as I cranked out a lie.
Got shot in the foot, and I'm dying today."
"Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
Play the dead tree march as you carry me along;
Take me to the mountains, and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm an old newsboy and I know I've done wrong."
Get six crying editors to carry my coffin,
Gullible readers can bear up my pall.
Put old newspapers all over my coffin,
Papers to deaden the clods as they fall."
"Compose your words slowly and rattle your keys lowly,
And whisper another lie as you carry me along;
And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me.
For I'm an old newsboy and I know I've done wrong."
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife well,
And sang a sad song as we bore him along.
He’s probably in Hell for the lies that he could tell.
But we loved the old newsboy because he'd done wrong.
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