Текст песни Death Of The Journalist

People used to burn pages, show their in and outrages These days the gage for rage is who gets flamed on comment pages No claim is too outrageous for these constant news updates Lines refined to save time, less complicators to sedate us We ingest five lines or less stories through our sub consciousness As times go by the Internet will kill the printed press Where's the scroll bar on these ink drenched pages? I ain't turning this Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist Good Friday, April 18th, 1930 BBC radio news showed rare maturity The news reporter said something that these days they wouldn't say 'Good evening, There is no news today'