Yila - d**h of the journalist lyrics

[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 k** the printed press Where's the scroll bar on these ink drenched pages? I ain't turning this Don't believe the hype machine, d**h of the Journalist [Hook] Don't believe the hype machine, d**h 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 wouldn't say ‘Good evening, There is no news today' They didn't 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 let's 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 don't have the sources anymore they just have Google finds Referencing other websites as if they're 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 it's 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 ‘em [Hook] [Verse 2] And it ain't just the news reporters it's the muso's too If you got a music blog, then son, I'm probably talking to you Don't 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, “You heard it here first” and it was in bold italics Throw enough sh** at the wall and some of it will stick But make no mistake, you're walls still covered in sh** There's 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 ain't gifted when they're lifted from my f**ing press release Your opinions next to nothing and that's all you'll amount to You're so vain you probably DON'T know this song is about you The problem here is I have a new album to sell And I've probably burnt some bridges in the web wide world Can I rebuild them; it's too far a distance to tell And I ain't Isambard Kingdom Brunel [Hook]