It's a metropolitan weekend paper,

As thick as a doormat, in several sections. 

He spreads the front page out on his lap

With a satisfied look–he's going to enjoy this.

But about half way down the trouble starts–

His brow furrows, he reads more slowly, 

Then breaks off to scan the other stories.
There is nothing new here, no news.
He hurriedly glances across the other pages

Of the first section, and then puts the paper

Down, dissatisfied. From time to time

He glances furtively at it, occasionally picking

Other sections up to thumb through,

But to no avail. At last his flight is called;

He stands up with his case and strides off,

Leaving it behind. Then he turns quickly,

Snatching at it. He holds it awkwardly,

Rumpled, under one arm, as he marches off.