I’m a producer of products.
Production’s my game.
This poeting business
Is a shortcut to fame.
Packaged in plastic
And displayed on a shelf.
I advertise my words
As being good for your health.
Thieves will be prosecuted.
Don’t try your luck.
These words that I sell
Are copyrighted to fuck.
The poets of old
Had not a clue
Their flowery opinions
Are no match for the new.
I’m booked up solid
With corporate events.
To think that last year
I was doing festival tents.
My agent’s on fire
The phone never stops.
Celebrity TV,
My face in the shops.
I’m richer than sin
There’s no point in lying
Please help me, for fuck’s sake
My old soul is dying.
No Tall Stories 