new yorker where are you

New Yorker, where are you? Come bang on my door
Come pant at my windows all ragged and yearning
I've practiced this interview since I was four
And these facial expressions, half-turning

Atlantic, you ought to be quoting my phrases
In large type at eye-soothing intervals
Where are the reporters with soft glowing gazes
Why haven't you answered my calls?

Guardian, what are you guarding? Your ass!
You fear to be linked with my power
If you had any sense you'd give Kate Bush a pass
And plaudits on me you would shower

For decades untold I have spun out my silk
All sticky and slinky and binding
What's wrong with you beard-oil-soaked bros and your ilk?
Why's the road to the mainstream so winding?

New Yorker, I used to, I freely confess
Express for hand-sew zines a preference
But that was the past! Now I want some redress
It's time for some glossy-mag deference

Atlantic, perhaps in some long-ago comeback
I quipped that I thought you too staid
But now I'm an eminence grise, you old ballsack
Attention demands to be paid

Guardian, guard yourself! Waves of regret
Will wash up like trash on your shore
If you don't give me all of the love I should get
You'll open a perilous door

I'll tell all my friends and they'll tell all their friends
We'll fall like a wolf on your fold
Journalism will meet some ignoble-ass ends
You deserve it for acting so cold

You'd better get with it, you dry-husk Hearst tools
You'd better get wise and get cracking
If you don't start your fawning this minute, you fools
I'll know that your judgment is lacking

It's not that I care that you don't seem to care
My hide is as tough as my worldview
I'm just sorry for you that your life is so bare
And you don't wield the fanbase that I do.