A copywriter’s lament

I’m stuck in a mire of stupid rhymes

Keen to avoid insane deadlines

I want to work above the line

Put my feet on the desk and pass the time

Go out for lunch on the company card

Wear a beret that is tres avant garde

Yet here I sit, sit , sit, sit

Today I do not like it, not one little bit

You want some vernacular in that AV script?

Then write it yourself you dumb little shit

But I bite my tongue and taste the blood

The sweat and tears that fall in a flood

One morning soon I shall climb to the roof

And leap into space with my parachute

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