In the great empty McLean building
there was a telephone . . .
and 8,700 pink slips . . .
and a picture of . . .
A golden parachute flapping over Craig Moon
And there were millions in stocks . . . Now worth pairs of socks
And 10 moral defectors . . . sorry, board of directors
And bonuses in cash . . . And jobs in the trash
And pensions worth squat and papers full of mush . . . And a spokeswoman wishing Jim Hopkins would hush
Goodnight loon . . . Goodnight, Craig Moon
Goodnight golden parachute covering that goon
Goodnight faux "diversity" . . . and Goodnight "mainstream" perversity
Goodnight retirement . . . and Goodnight acquirement
Goodbye salary but hello furlough . . . who knew our copy could ever sink this low?
Goodbye careers killed, to give Dubow millions
Goodbye newsrooms, stripped like wax Brazilians
Goodbye police scanners . . . and Goodbye deadline rushes
Goodbye nut-job sports guys . . . and copy-desk lushes
Goodnight accurate
Goodnight fair
Goodnight newspapers everywhere
Please post your poems in the comments section, below. To e-mail confidentially, write gannettblog[at]gmail[dot-com]; see Tipsters Anonymous Policy in the green rail, upper right.
You suck, Jim, and you need to be stopped with whatever means possible.
ReplyDeleteStop Jim. Today.
Ahhhh, management comes out of the bushes. Why, don't like the subject? LOL
ReplyDeleteAs a journalist still employed in the newspaper business, I take great offense at this "poem." I am sorry people have lost their jobs. I could lose mine tomorrow.
ReplyDeleteBut to make the claim that good journalism is no longer being done; or that accuracy and fairness are no longer possible are outrageous and demeaning to YOUR former co-workers who are still fighting in the trenches to report the news in print and online and in broadcast.
Frankly, Jim, I am surprised you gave this poem such prominent play. You continue to show your true colors when you do this stuff.
And there were millions in stocks . . . Now worth pairs of socks
ReplyDeleteAnd ten moral defectors . . . sorry, board of directors
And bonuses in cash . . . And jobs in the trash
And pensions worth squat and papers full of mush . . . And a spokeswoman wishing Jim Hopkins would hush
Wow, I don't know, but isn't this the truth?
Copy-desk lushes?!
ReplyDeleteSpot on.
'wax Brazilians.' Sweet.
ReplyDeleteIt's quite obvious that the more Jim reports on what "other posters" write, or reveals that the corporate CEO Emporer or any of his minions is indeed naked, the more attacks and abuse Jim gets.
ReplyDelete____________________________
You suck, Jim, and you need to be stopped with whatever means possible.
Stop Jim. Today.
4/17/2009 11:09 AM
_____________________________
Competition getting too hot for you 11:09?
"8,700 pink slips . . .and a picture of . . . A golden parachute flapping over Craig Moon"
ReplyDeleteOuch! They say the truth will set you free...but first it will piss you off.
Dr. Suess would be proud.
ReplyDeleteVerification: OBITai
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteHey 1:21 - 1:06 here. I AM a journalist. Be careful not to let your opinion show too much or be too judgmental. Besides, how do you know what I meant by my comment? Could it possibly be satire? NAAAH! Oops, guess that would make me a COLUMNIST, huh?
ReplyDelete1:21 p.m. a journalist who would copy the misspelling of someone's name?
ReplyDeleteIt's Dr. Seuss.
Sheesh.
@1:06 It's not very Seussian. But Margaret Wise Brown, author of "Goodnight Moon,"might be proud.
ReplyDelete(Journalist at work.)
11:27- Oh, shut up. This poem, and I'm sure you'll forgive my exuberant lack of eloquence, is freaking awesome. You know it, too. That's why you're pissed- because you never could have managed to rhyme "diversity" and "perversity."
ReplyDeleteWow, what a lot of ass-kissers moaning about Moon. Well, this one isn't swooning. I am celebrating. Good riddance. He was bad news. Glad to see he is gone. And, yes, it is a very good effort at poetry.
ReplyDelete11:09: Still standin up for that Freedom of Speech, huh?
ReplyDeleteHi y'all,
ReplyDeleteDon't mean to interrupt the little Algonquin Round Table we've got going here, but we did all see this, right?:
"You suck, Jim, and you need to be stopped with whatever means possible.
Stop Jim. Today."
4/17/2009 11:09 AM
And the shareholders' meeting -- potentially one of the most excruciating in Gannett history, thanks largely to Jim's blog -- is 13 days away?
Yeah.
Don't know where that came from, but that's got to constitute at least Harassment nomatter where you are.
Legal beagles out there -- thoughts?
thanks! that was fun to read.
ReplyDeleteThursday, April 30 is Poem In Your Pocket day. This would be a dandy poem to carry with you.
ReplyDeleteWhere else would we be regaled with poetry, veiled threats, journalistic cleverness and dreadful bores in just ONE blog thread.
ReplyDeleteSickem.
"You suck, Jim, and you need to be stopped with whatever means possible.
ReplyDeleteStop Jim. Today."
What are you afraid of? Why does anyone have the right to stop this free speech exercise.
This Gannett Blog is a wake up call to upper management of how we in the trenches have felt for a very, very, very long time.
If this blog wasn't a dental pick poking in to the decay of Gannett, then this blog would be ignored.
I for one call on the Freedom Forum to come to the aid of Jim. They should pony up some dough to support this blog for it is the very symbol of freedom of speech. Grin.
Jim is the Fox News of the blog world. You know what I mean.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeletePerhaps Ben Folds would be a good song right now?
ReplyDelete"Fred Jones Pt. 2"
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes
Things that remind him: 'Life has been good'
Twenty-five years
He's worked at the paper
A man's here to take him downstairs
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
There was no party, there were no songs
'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started
Noone is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don't change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn't look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He's forgotten but not yet gone
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time