Amy writes the songs you hear between commercial shows
She’s melodies for booksellers and high-street winter sales
They say “Amy, write a song consumers can’t resist”
“Something heartbreaking for schemes that will consolidate your debt”
So Amy stares across the sparse infinity of open plan
Takes a sip of coffee, rests her fingers on the piano keys
“Amy write a song that’s just twelve seconds long”
“With the full terms and conditions in a way that makes them scan”
It’s way past five, it’s unpaid overtime
And there’s just one thing left to write
Amy calls in sick and hugs the duvet and her record player
Takes the first LP she bought from saving all her pocket money
Blows the dust off of the faded cardboard sleeve
Sets the stylus to the sound of clicks and crackles
Drowns in memories of high school trips and summer evenings
Drowns in melodies of bands who perceived wisdom hung to dry
