Our language must have seemed among the learned Cliches of the morning press, but we earned Our eighteen pence a line and as time passed On Dublin papers reporters became at last. We climbed to art exibitions [sic], book reviewers Wrote on the drama - technique that allures; We discovered actresses, musicians too - Every cliché on the scale we knew. The films! we went to French and Russian pictures Mixing with much praise some gobshite strictures. And we often wrote on food We understood Fancy food and wines. We rose to glory On scoops that caught our latest puerile story. Old editors died out, went mad or sinned And we applied to blow the smelly wind Of the editorial gasbag. So came he Who in this room before me you can see. The editor stands back, others arrive All showing hardness where my angles edge I am cussed, they say, I who seek the normal Will not fit in no matter how I strive.