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.
(based on Philip Larkin’s This Be The Verse)