To clinch thy clutch! All day I hear,

“More copy!”

My brain’s a-whirl, my senses swim—

What cares the screeching imp for that?

He’s got two words, so tonguey pat,

He slits the air with vocal vim,

“More copy!”

A sapient smirk illumes his phiz—

He feels his power, and grinning grips,

The ink-wet pages, scissored slips,