Publishers

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.

John Whitworth

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Whitworth_(poet)

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