Something in the Papers by Ambrose Bierce

“What’s in the paper?” Oh, it’s dev’lish dull: There’s nothing happening at all⁠—a lull After the war-storm. Mr. Someone’s wife Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. A fire on Blank Street and some babies⁠—one, Two, three or four, I don’t remember, done To quite a delicate and lovely brown. A husband shot by woman of the town⁠— The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. The crew, all saved⁠—or lost. Uncommon drouth Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud⁠— Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. ’Tis feared some bank will burst⁠—or else it won’t; They always burst, I fancy⁠—or they don’t; Who cares a cent?⁠—the banker pays his coin And takes his chances: bullet in the groin⁠— But that’s another item. Suicide⁠— Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. Heigh-ho! there’s noth⁠—Jerusalem! what’s this? Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss Of ruin!⁠—owes me seven hundred, clear! Was ever such a damned disastrous year!