Poisoned Pen. I started my days as a news reporter Back in the days a paper cost a quarter, Rarely did I step up onto the front page But I had a fair trot in the pre-digital age. I recall the first day I started my paper run, Up bright and early with 'The Morning Sun,' But I rose too fast, too high, pushed too far... Seeing out my days at the fading 'Evening Star.' But the sorry day that ended with my fall, It's a sad story I'm not happy to recall, The tale beginning with 'writers block,' Ending with my resigned John Hancock. Every wordsmith asks 'why oh why Sometimes the words within up and die?' Sometimes not 'coz the mind's crapped out, Sometimes the lousy pen's just tapped out. How can a poor reporter report When ink and inspiration run short? How can you stick your account in when You're stuck with a washed-up fountain pen? My cheap nasty pen, wot a waste of cash, Now all it writes is lots of dots... then... dash- While the words are dancin' in my head It's lose the pen and get out the lead. But a pencil is best 2B left for school, Shorthand soon makes of it a blunt tool, Plus a pencil has a built-in handicap, When writing under pressure- SNAP! So up my shitey pen I did take, Gripped tight, gave it a mighty shake, Another black mark for the newsman- Tossed the bleeding thing in the
shittrash can. From its wretched twisted stuck-up tip Black As Midnight ink began to darkly drip, There it lay, its Guaranteed word broken, A final message can take its time to soak in. This pen then proved it hadn't dried out, Silly me- I never clicked it hadn't died out, My long-time pen-friend I treated so cruel? Its lifesblood began to viscously pool. But my fine story I would complete, This Fleet Street journo won't be beat, I tentatively asked my Boss for her pen to loan, No mistaking 'no' when the middle finger's shown. So I broke the Days story, thanks to a crayon, Twilight came, I blinked, and the day's gone, I'd written off the entire day! Time to clean up, up and away. My desk, in its usual state of disgrace- And my Boss demands a pristine workplace, When it comes to dealing with the craptrash My method is a sweeping slap-dash. I upraised the document recycling lid, Of my balled-up confusions soon be rid; One problem with the rubbish I write Is I jam in all I can, bad, good and tight. Gravity wouldn't empty this rubbish bin And so, I put my left hand in, I pulled my write hand out And waved it drippily all about. What I felt was more than an inkling, In the bottom, more than a sprinkling, I had a bad feeling, down to my fingertips, And a bad banned word sprung from my lips. Just as the Boss entered, her face went white- I stood guiltily, hands up, black as pitchest night, Potty mouth, filthy hands, dirtier than Monty Burns; And here is where the sad story sinisterly turns... She, the prissy mistress of clean and tidy Told me to clean out my desk by Friday, So I demanded to see the Department Head- We'd see to whom the riot act would be read! The rumours I'd so cavalierly dismissed- That red hot tip about the Boss's secret tryst- That cock-a-doodle tale came home to roost- I leapt to the conclusion like I'd been goosed. When your Boss's Boss has a bossy mistress And she wears both the pants and the dress How did this No-Shit Sherlock fail to understand In this curly situation she held the whip hand? Now she demanded a letter saying I'd resigned- I tossed it off, left on her desk, but left it unsigned, As I raised my pen, something penned-up released- A red mist exploded as my high circulation increased. Her desk was so scrupulously clean it was scary- But then again, she dumped it all on her secretary, I was young, impulsive, angry and foolish, I'll admit it- I left her anally-retentive room like a hurricane had hit it. I reported down town, showed the cops my guilty face- I should've just signed off and not trashed the place, I'd left a trail of destruction, burnt all my bridges, A black trail awash with all my whorls and ridges. Thats where my career started to run downhill, Once blistering exposes- trotted out, run of the mill, My days as a serious Sun scribe went down the tubes When my page 3 story was covered by a pair of boobs. Now my short sentence has finished long since, For twenty years I've kept clean(ish) fingerprints, Still I'm known as a Criminally Damaged Offender... And I coulda shoulda been a Nobel Prize contender. I've worked every dirty rag, at Times, in the Big Smoke, I'm Ex-Press, past Post, your Standard journalistic joke, I've hacked at the News Of The World, for what it's worth, That mob, that job lot- I've toiled for the scum of the earth! I've written reams of rubbish I'm not proud of For fu- folk I never dreamed I'd be in a crowd of, I've had a dab hand in fiction passed off as fact, But today I've resigned again rather than be sacked. The bad news was- our little paper has been sold- My new manager- that stone cold foxbitch of old, I already knew 'to know her is to loathe her,' But the company she keeps is even lower. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ So now I'm working for peanuts, for a free giveaway, Honestly, I put in a big days work for a wee day's pay, But it is reward enough to be just a poor wordsmith If the face I see in the morning mirror I can work with. My past Press Associations still sadly lingers, People still point at me with shaking fingers, Asking me if it's true, just what kind of twisted views Do I hold to be too damn good to report for Fox News?