Classic Poem

Some persons (whose names I'll not mention)
Exist in a passional stew,
Defying the tyrant Convention,
And bidding Dame Gossip go to.
Their loves, maugre jibes of the jealous,
Are pure as the gold of the mint.
Their lives are their own, so they tell us—
Then why do they wallow in print?

I'll forgive all their fond indiscretions.
Quite willing that they shall be free;
I'll overlook all their transgressions,
As nothing whatever to me.
They want to be free, I say let 'em;
Let license be theirs without stint.
I even would aid and abet 'em,
Provided they kept out of print.

But Lord, no. You simply can't lose 'em;
No sin but they're keen to confess.
Reporters are clasped to their bosom,
They pour out their souls to the press.
Of dignity not a suggestion,
Of reticence never a hint.
Oh, why—to return to my question—
Oh, why do they wallow in print?