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Ah, the copyright is a slippery beast

It doesn’t do what you think.

It wasn’t writ to protect

Your labor of pen and ink.

It was writ by the king’s good men

Now the tale I tell is true

So that if a writer breaks contract,

Twill be a day that he will rue.

Now that twas all in the olden days

Fore the tea was tossed in the Drink,

But when they writ up new laws

Twarn’t for writers I think.

Nah, it twar for the publisher’s men

And their printing machine sah fine

So that when you sell your words

You kiss them all good-bye.

Then there came the recorded word

And moving picture too;

Finally jolly old internet

Leaching the copyright glue.

So the Prez’s men writ new laws

Shoring up the old decree

Binding up this new media

That delighted you and me.

They tore ta covers from unsold books

Tossed them up in a bin

Didn’t even pulp the leaves

To print out new again.

The selling price of a brand new book

Ever grew more dear

While the writer’s personal pay

Grew ever less each year.

The publishers didn’t profit much

So they printed less and less;

Adding fewer authors every year

As you might well guess.

But you should not be despairing

I tell you young writers all

When the muse comes knocking

Go ahead, heed that call.

If you cannot afford the paper

Then never shall ye fear,

Blend ye up a slurry of leaves,

And clothes beyond repair.

Pour it out on a window screen,

Dry it in the sun

Trim neat the edges all round

Then your paper’s done.

Get ye a couple a thin fine boards

Ta lay your papers between

Sew it all with good stout twine

Twill be a fine indeed.

Then sell out copies on the street corner;

Peddle it in the town

Sell it where e’re ye may

For a penny or a pound.

For the copyright is a slippery beast

It doesn’t do what you think.

It wasn’t writ to protect

Your labor of pen and ink.

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