From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 188-189.
YOUR EDITOR SPEAKS
We love this town, there’s nothing like it,
However far and wide we hike it.
We’re glad we came, we gladly linger
And sling the type with skillful finger.
Our feet and heart are oversize;
With weal or woe we sympathize.
We’re tickled as that budding Beecher
When church folks raise the local preacher.
From Jimmy Smith’s first wailing breath
To when his eyes are close in death,
There’s scarce a word or work or caper
But interests the local paper.
The member of the Ladies’ Aid
By whom the first prize pie is made,
We’re good and glad to celebrate her.
Each doubting Thomas to convince,
We give her recipe for mince,
And say our teeth have never sunk in
A pie so pleasing as her punkin.
When Minnie finds her latest pet
As good as she will likely get,
We print kind words about the wedding,
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E’en though we fear they’ll have hard sledding,
Felicitate the bride and groom
And hope to see the birthrate boom.
We want the news but want the best;
We censor some and print the rest.
Send in the facts and keep them coming,
We like them fresh and hot and humming.
Send in the news but search your heart;
Be sure it holds no poisoned dart.
In all the land there is no cuss
As mean as old Anonymous.
We go each night in peace to roost
If we have done our daily boost;
But nightmares come to fright and shock
For every mean and measly knock.