A Sun Reader's Lament
Mr T. Newton Dunn, Mr T. Newton Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by R. Murdoch's Sun,
What strenuous efforts you make in a plea
To deny any influence - you with me!
Words dirty, words haughty, oh! weakness of ploy,
To bid us all swallow the murder of joy,
With carefullest carelessness, daily you won,
We are weak from your onslaught, Tom Newton Dunn.
Mr Tom Newton Dunn, Mr Tom Newton Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, ashamed that you won,
Despite warm-hearted public, we read in the press,
The 'fury' we feel against those who have less.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
Struggles with the vision and fine-wrought lie
Of a world observed through Murdoch's Sun's eye.
From the desks of your newsroom there is power to distort,
The reader drawn in by bare breasts and the sport,
While reason lies somnolent, does not question The Sun,
Nor those who dupe wilfully, Mr Tom Newton Dunn.
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