Sonnet I Couldn’t Fit On My Picket Sign
Executives, whom lately we have ankled:
What occupies you now, in your desk chairs?
Does your telephone’s vile silence have you rankled?
Are you experts now at minesweeper, solitaire?
And have you, like I, begun even to miss
The meetings we both knew were wasted breath?
Where drunk on free Crystal Geyser I would kiss
Your ass and say to you, “I love ‘Til Death!”
We trudge in circles now, perchance we think
Of pilots we could pen, screenplays to spec.
Then we dismiss them and go look up Nikki Finke
On our iPhones… no new news… and on we trek.
Were I to pitch this quarrel as a TV show
I’d say, “think 30 Rock meets The Sopranos.”
by Jon Sherman (with apologies to Nicholas Weinstock)
What occupies you now, in your desk chairs?
Does your telephone’s vile silence have you rankled?
Are you experts now at minesweeper, solitaire?
And have you, like I, begun even to miss
The meetings we both knew were wasted breath?
Where drunk on free Crystal Geyser I would kiss
Your ass and say to you, “I love ‘Til Death!”
We trudge in circles now, perchance we think
Of pilots we could pen, screenplays to spec.
Then we dismiss them and go look up Nikki Finke
On our iPhones… no new news… and on we trek.
Were I to pitch this quarrel as a TV show
I’d say, “think 30 Rock meets The Sopranos.”
by Jon Sherman (with apologies to Nicholas Weinstock)
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