I bring you a tale from the town of Dragoon,
And it comes just in time, not a moment too soon.
I used to work for an agent, you see,
As their Executive Business Enrichment VP.
A job that most agents don’t offer at all
Because even the snarky ones don’t have such gall.
The way that we worked it, we’d run a small ad
And scour the net for some folks who write bad
And prey on their hopes and their dreams and their fears
And say, “This is the best thing that I’ve seen in years!
It’s clever, it’s crisp, it cannot be beat,
It positioned me right on the edge of my seat.”
We send out some contracts, deposit some checks,
Move on when the Feds start to breathe down our necks.
Commissions are crazy! It’s incomparably saner
To pay for it all with the simple retainer.
Things were just ducky at Rancho B. Bauer.
The money rolled in, we worked only one hour
A day. That’s how long it took us to sign
The backs of the checks. Then we’d all go and dine
At Otto on Eighth, owned by Mario Batali.
Until one dark night when an vicious cabal re-
Cruited a blogger, or two, or thirteen
And started to post things that struck me as mean.
I’m a poet, you see, and they called me a hack
For writing about the Twin Towers attack
As a way of making myself seem sincere,
Which matters when gullible authors are near.
It is bad news for us when a writer gets wise --
A smart one could threaten the whole enterprise.
Tell me, what does Victoria Strauss
Care if some people see me as a louse?
Or that foul-mouthed gin-swilling agent named Snark
With her tam-wearing dog whose bite’s worse than his bark?
I’ve tried hard to show them but they just do not see
That a fee is a fee is a fee is a fee.
It’s a great big free country. There’s room for all kinds
Of agents, including an agent who finds
She would rather be different and practice our way.
We’ll welcome her at the I.I.L.A.A.
Disqualified for Word count-but yanno (tm/pp) pretty damn funny