Tuesday, October 14, 2003
As I post this I'm thinking of an old friend in the East who is an exception. He's done it right, and his daughter now follows his steps. There are others, of course, but Gresham's law surely applies to all endeavor. Who knows how many we've lost.
Where Did They Go?
I'd hate to shovel excrement, or dig up sewer pipe.
I'd fain avoid the abattoir; the blood, the brains, the tripe.
I'm loath to colonoscopize, lance boils, or cut a cyst.
But which of worthy work shun I? The job of journalist.
It's not that cov'rage of our world is not a needed trust,
With moral charge; a safeguard from untruth, from word unjust.
The journalist is picket against harm by fact reviled,
A soldier in a struggle. No, it's for my wife and child.
Suppose my boy, computer wise and reader on the Net,
Says "look here dad the facts are there, he really was a threat."
Your byline crushed the Kay report, please dad what have you done?"
How could I face him then and say, "I haven't read it, son."
[The truth is, I have read it and there's sure enough to chill
The fiercest real skeptic—now he's gone and never will
Slow-build threat to our families—behind bylines, I'm glad
But story framer prejudice requires right stuff look bad.]
"You've got to understand it son, I have to go along—
It means my job and, as they say, are we to know what's wrong?
The pressure is enormous—my bosses and my peers..."
No. Children grow up nervous when their daddies live in fear.
So let them grow upright and tall, their father to admire;
Too good a coin to waste on biased scheme and peerish ire.
For now I'll run this refuse truck—here's trash without a twist.
Where facts are wanted, straight and proud, I'll be a journalist.
posted by Stephen at 7:06 AM | Plink
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