One hundred years of selling crap,
Of tacky verses, mindless pap,
And vulgar jokes and puns that pass
For humour with the underclass.
They're there in every shopping mall,
Purveyors to the urban sprawl
Of hen night trimmings in bad taste
And pointless cards, a useless waste
Of paper, money, space and time;
You name it, they'll supply the rhyme,
To prove there's no need for thought
When sentiments can just be bought.