A songwriter sat down to write and tried and tried with all this might to make the inspiration come until the bowels of his soul were numb until he almost screeched in pain and forced an idea in his brain. He strained, then like a thunderclap, out came a song - and it was crap.
Established DJ's tapped their feet, they thought it sounded rather sweet; it had nothing unsafe to say and so they played it night and day and so they played it day and night ad nauseam, as if in spite. It should have been hurled down the nearest drain but was played again and again and again
And so it got to Number One and bored the **** off everyone and so eventually went gold as down the river the world was sold as grannies bought it in their droves (as if grannyhood behoves the buying of such awful things) And thus the turkey spread it's wings.
One day, a man with a broken heart whose business venture fell apart whose grandmother was very ill stood high upon a window sill and wondered, should he jump, or no? And was six floors high enough to go? As his aching heart began to thump, He heard the song - and decided to jump.
*Written a fewyears ago and revised tonight; this poem was inspired by the song "Achy Beeaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus, which I have always hated with a passionate, red-eyed, fire-spitting hate. I also dedicate it to every Christmas record that ever made me gag.*