This poem is my take on the publishing industry which, like many others, has its share of unpleasant people of dubious scruples and ambitions, who often end up having an affair. They are usually married and have numerous kids between them and they do not care who they step on to get where they want to go! You need to sing it to Flanders and Swann’s eponymous The Hippopotamus Song, if you know it!

A bold chief executive, with ambitious schemes, stood surveying the lie of the land,
He longed for a partner to share in his dreams, to effectively be his right hand.
He tried hard to find her, an ally, a minder, a lady who was in the know,
And then he espied her, the black widow spider, in her office just one floor below.

Stud, stud! He’s clearly a stud!
Eight children to prove his equipment’s not dud!
But what of tomorrow, he’ll find to his sorrow,
The black widow spider’s ambitious by God!

The lady he’d spotted was visionary too, her mission to get loads of pay,
Her route to the top, via a much lauded shop, was a rags to riches resume.
She knew straight away, this alliance would pay, they shared egos and pint-sized physique,
The lady was willing, to fit every billing, and jump into bed so to speak.

Lud, lud, emotions in flood,
A meeting of minds like a fork in a spud!
So take a big swallow, and fear for tomorrow,
‘Cause public relations have come into bud.

Together they climb to the top of the tree, and survey all us peasants below.
They crack us and wrack us to get the work done and show backers the empire will grow.
They know what to do, they just force the work through, or make life so grim we resign.
Then appoint at fat fees, those with more ‘expertise’ who they make sure will all toe the line.

Blood, blood, they’re after your blood!
Their ventures, debentures, are starting to scud,
They won’t see your mailings, they’ll just see your failings,.
And label you lazy and call you a dud!

Nothing they do is holistic or nice, take a nauseous book about dreams,
They wanted to print so that they’d make a mint and could count all the cash from their schemes.
They published the book and you just take one look and decide that you’ll not sleep again!
A book quite repulsive, to make one convulsive, but count all those dollars you’ll gain!

Crud, crud, a right load of crud,
Sent to the press ’twill come back with a thud,
And surely some joke or are you on coke, or
No feature redeeming in this book m’lud.

And so there you are, it’s a short exemplar of publishing’s management class,
We all know the score, it’s the last through the door who has sun shining clear out their arse!
But surely you know that short-lived anal glow will expire when the next mug arrives,
But if you should leave, you’ll get no reprieve, they’ll rewrite your CVs and your lives.

Mud, mud, they love to sling mud,
At people who leave, accusations will scud,
But listen to chummy,
Don’t be a dummy,
Just run home to mummy and chew on the cud!