My great press cleaves the guts of men,
My great noise drowns their cries,
My sales beat all the other ten,
Because I print most lies.

I get the kids out on the street
To sell the papers early,
At one o'clock I go to lunch,
Looking so big and burly.

I wear a fine fur coat and gloves,
And spats above my shoes,
They have to do the dirty work,
I do whatever I choose.

They have to stand about in mud
And cold fit for despair,
But I have made a ruddy pile
From profits on hot air.

I pump the market up and down
By rigging stock reports,
And get my pickings on the side
From dress goods ads, and sports.

The King was once the biggest thing
In England? I'll say YES!
But knights and Lords to-day respect
The power of the Press.