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.





6 responses to “Product

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