The Marketer

The marketer, sitting in his corridor
Hunched over a desk
And he's waiting to cross the border
Because "Americans are pure pests!"
The Marketer

He never draws pictures
He never writes stories
But instead the ads around them
Propaganda, merchandise
Name it and he's got the price!
The Marketer

The marketer, waiting for his plane to arrive
Looking round the airport
Counting ads he created 1-2-3-4-5
And looking round with distort
The marketer

He never draws pictures
He never writes stories
But instead the ads around them
He once saw her sway
But then the parents took her away
The marketer

The marketer, fueled with depression
From the long hard days at work
He eats a taco at a food session
Drinks some beer, and pops the cork
The marketer

He never draws pictures
He never writes stories
But instead the ads around them
Gets into his car
Tries to drive to the bar
The marketer
The marketer
The marketer
The marketer