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 
July 1st, 2012 at 8:06 pm
i know that feeling
July 5th, 2012 at 4:31 pm
May you find peace and be blessed.
July 10th, 2012 at 11:42 am
To stay true to ourselves amidst all the ‘flim flam’ … as vital as breath 😀
July 10th, 2012 at 11:14 pm
Fucking different.
I like different.
Sold!
July 10th, 2012 at 11:43 pm
I like it 🙂
Like theptbook said above, may you find find inner peace and be blessed.
July 11th, 2012 at 9:37 am
i love it. your sense of humor, your rhythm divine. your flippancy. all are combined.