Continuing the fun we had with our Scottish bashes at interpreting the Lord's Prayer, I have another challenge in a simliar vein. Why don't we try something on the theme of profession?......
The idea is based on the following homage to Larkin's "This Be The Verse", which I suggest we use as our template for this kooky exercise.
They fuck you up, do publishers.
Against them there is no defence.
No letter, postcard, phone-call stirs
The puddle of their insolence.
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.
(And Larkin's poem for reference:)
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.