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[Intro]
People used to burn pages, show their inner outrages
These days the gage for rage is who gets flamed on comment pages
No claim is too outrageous for these constant news updaters
Lines refined to save time, less complicated 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
Whereâs the scroll bar on these ink drenched pages? I ainât turning this
Donât believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist
[Hook]
Donât believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist
[Verse 1]
Good Friday, April 18th, 1930
BBC radio news showed a rare maturity
The news reporter said something that these days they wouldnât say
âGood evening, There is no news todayâ
They didnât feel the need to fill with leads on non-news stories
All picked apart and ripped painting fake failures or glories
Making mole hills into mountains being exaggeratory
Financial backers in their ears feeding different allegories
So letâs beguile this sickly horse whispered media
Less reliable sources than Wikipedia
Journalism is dead⦠rest in pieces of trivia
The blogger is king, the gossip column is leading ya
As the blogger becomes the journalist the art form dies
They donât have the sources anymore they just have Google finds
Referencing other websites as if theyâre well sourced scriptures
Focused on getting their hits up not winning Pulitzers
Their journalism is lazy in the need to be first
I do more research than some of them when penning a verse
And you know how you are, we just believe itâs the truth
We just accept it as news instead of asking for proof
But in a way the Internet makes journalism redundant
Freedom of information despite the attempts of some governments
Man tweets while WikiLeaks, spilling the truth of the troublesome
But truths become perspectives as soon as man discovers âem
[Hook]
[Verse 2]
And it ainât just the news reporters itâs the musoâs too
If you got a music blog, then son, Iâm probably talking to you
Donât skim intros, listen to each track through
And maybe running a spell check before you post a review
They drop a million band names to get the Google hits
Remember, âYou heard it here firstâ and it was in bold italics
Throw enough shit at the wall and some of it will stick
But make no mistake, youâre walls still covered in shit
Thereâs obtrusive new remits on the promotion slog
We need exclusive new remixes to service the blogs
And half of these online networks are flattery operated
Hand feed them but let them think it was internally propagated
Your lines are recycled, you have no identity
Your words ainât gifted when theyâre lifted from my fucking press release
Your opinions next to nothing and thatâs all youâll amount to
Youâre so vain you probably DONâT know this song is about you
The problem here is I have a new album to sell
And Iâve probably burnt some bridges in the web wide world
Can I rebuild them; itâs too far a distance to tell
And I ainât Isambard Kingdom Brunel
[Hook]