Marilyn,
That's a fine poem. Good to see you here. I hope your next posting on this site is not going to be in 2010.
On a slightly different note, here's one by John Whitworth:
They Fuck You Up, Do Publishers
(A Farewell to Secker and Warburg)
They fuck you up do publishers.
Against them there is no defence.
No letter, postcard, phone-call stirs
The puddle of their indolence.
Each author's fucked up in his turn.
Each contract is a poison pellet.
And specially must poets learn
That verse don't sell, and they don't sell it.
Man hands on manuscript to man,
Who leaves the thing in St Tropez.
Get out as quickly as you can
And write a television play.
(from Tennis and Sex and Death, Peterloo 1989)
Gregory
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