Death Of The Journalist Lyrics & Chords By Scroobius Pip

People used to burn pages, show their in and 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 complicators to sedate us

We ingest five lines or less stories through our sub-consciousness
As times go by the Internet will kill the printed press
Where's the scroll bar on these ink drenched pages? I ain't turning this
Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist

HOOK:
Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist

Good Friday, April 18th, 1930
BBC radio news showed 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:
Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist

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 shit at the wall and some of it will stick
But make no mistake, you're walls still covered in shit

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 fucking press release
Your opinions next to nothing and that's all you'll amount to
You're so vain you probably DON'T think 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:
Don't believe the hype machine, death of the Journalist