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.