I´m here to find out what makes you tick
I´m here to discover the secret you
I intend to reveal you´re crooked and sick
I don´t give a damn if none of it´s true

There´s a Byline Browne from the national press
That is how I earn my wages
I bring exposure and distress
As I spread your guts across the centre pages

I´m here to solicit your innermost thoughts
I´m fuelled by jealousy, venom and drink
I poke in your dustbins and I lurk round the courts
I puke up your portrait in bright yellow ink

There´s a Byline Browne of the popular press
The man who bought you babies for sale
I´ll blackmail your neighbour and look up your dress
But come what may I´ll tell my tale

I cover each item as issues arise

With a stain on the fabric of tissue of lies
I fuck up your family, your future and friends
And I´ll see you in hell before my story ends

I´m a reporter with senses and hunches
Somebody´s daughter´s turned into a junkie
I´m a reporter with expenses and lunches
And a whiskey and water, and I don´t give a monkey´s