Writing's Way Worser Than Working
Oh, I'm tired of bending my back for a buck;
See, it comes out of falling so far on my luck
That I now have to work with some tools and a truck
And a cynic might say that my plight's gotta suck.
Now, I tried putting Parker to paper, but then
A whole lotta nuthin' resulted, so when
The larder was empty at a quarter to Ten
I ran to a place that was looking for men.
They gave me a job scrubbing decks on a ship
And told me be sure and show up with my slip.
So, straight as a laser I sped to the boat
And made enough dough so's to keep me afloat.
In an ideal world I could sell my hack rhymes;
For the nonce, sad to say, I must roll with the times.
For as much as I'd like to go scribbling out verse
I'll be much better fed if I've coins in me purse.
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