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The Old Reporter

One leg up and one down,

two fingers at the keys.

It was the way, then,

to tell the world about

frozen lakes and big winds;

how the officer was a crook

(or so they said)

We sat in rows

when we were there,

and the sports boys

told a good tale,

swung imaginary clubs

among the jottings.

Pull up a smoke, lads

and I’ll tell you how

we went to a robbery

then got pissed.

What a hoot: mind you

we were always pissed.

Part of the job, really.

Can’t write on an empty tank.

Not a chance.

Well, not one we took.

Yes, we’ll have another.

And one for him.

Good bastard. Bent cop.

Know what I mean;

nod’s as good as wink.

We spilt words on pages,

the keys dug in deep,

we filled the stories

with dashes.

Emphasis, you know.

Old reporter’s trick:

make it sound worse

than it was. Well, you do.

Or we did. Then.

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