To the tune of Rod Stewart's Sailing

We are wailing, We are wailing, We are wailing inky tears. Fleet Street’s finest, with our cheque books, We’ve been barred from buying beers On expenses, for the sailors, For their yarns of savage jailers.

Drunken Sailor

What shall we do for a World Exclusive? [et seq] Earlaye in the morning. Send for Max Clifford, he’s a Smart ‘Un. All my eye and Betty Martin. “Buy the pillow talk of their loved ones In time for the Last Edition.” Pull out the plug and wet ’em all over. Don’t let ’em flounce like pigs in clover. Catch them when they dodge the question, Press the inquisition. Way hay and up she [but what] rises, Earlaye on Today and Sky.

Sailing: reprise

They are flailin’ , they are flailin’, With their soundbites for the meeja, Which are deniable and knee-jerk.

London’s Burning: Round

Nelson’s burning, Nelson’s burning, Shame, shame! Shame, shame! Bung ’em large ones, hear ’em whimper, Put ’em on telly, watch ’em simper, Is the Senior Service fit for porpoise? Are they whaling? No they’re wailing.