In a post yesterday, I spoke of Arthur Brisbane, the New York Times’s outgoing “public editor,” who wrote an extraordinary final assessment. I said, en passant, “Surely this Arthur Brisbane is a descendant of the Arthur Brisbane, one of the leading newspapermen in America in the first part of the 20th century?” A reader writes to say, Oh, yes — grandson. The reader also mentions a song by Cole Porter, from the 1935 show Jubilee. The song is “Sunday Morning Breakfast Time” — whose lyrics include

For it’s Sunday morning breakfast time, The time all men adore! Why don’t the poets go into rhyme And rave about it more? For only then can a man forget The sweat and the worries of his bane- Ful lot as he calmly enjoys his toast And most of Arthur Brisbane.

I have a feeling the words work much better when sung than when flat on the page, like this. In any case, I’m no Cole Porter — no comments from the peanut gallery, please — but I feel like composing an ode to the present Arthur Brisbane, for the truths he spoke. Those truths may be yawny to you and me — “Pervasive liberal bias at the New York Times? You don’t say. Are you next going to tell me that Wednesday follows Tuesday?” — but they are novel to many.