One fine and jolly summer’s day, I sat down with a pen,
Wrote for me a novel, to earn me one pound ten,
Thought I’d write a mystery, with lots of blood and gore,
Leave the punters panting, and shouting out for more.
Sent it to a publisher, earned a rejection note,
Picked up several more of them, for this book I’d wrote,
Went to see the penguin, said please publish me,
But he shook his beaky head, and said, it’s time for tea.
But what about my novel, irate, I did demand,
Throw it in the river, he said with wave of hand,
So I shot him deadly, right there upon the spot,
Made me feel quite sprightly, made me plenty hot.
Went out and shot some more of them, all went down like flies,
Reject me now, you bitches, see if one more dies,
But I got a contract, and a big advance,
And so I just retired and went to live in France.