Those McCain adverts have sent me over the edge.
Copywriters in advertising
Have hit a sickly trend surprising.
Someone up on high decreed
That what the punters really need
To sell this shiny product to ’em
Is some kind of half-arsed poem.
“It’s folksy!” They cry, “They’ll reminisce
About those rosy days they miss
Country sayings, nursery rhymes
Old wisdom gleaned from bygone times.
A canny bumpkin educates us
On microwaveable baked potaters.
It’s boy-next-door, it’s trusted friend
A kindly elder who recommends
A hotel room or fast food chain:
A nostalgia prion in the brain.
“One of the most crucial factor’s
Sourcing suitable voice actors
With homely tones, earnest, beguiling
(Make sure they read the text while smiling.)
And research says, to reach our goal,
They’ll need an accent regional.
“But I can’t write poems!” the junior cries
“No matter, just cover the salient lies
And for the rest, cute gibberish:
‘A-yummy scrummy wummy fish!’
“It’s advertising, except it’s art
Look at those market research charts:
We’ll cultivate brand loyalty
With fucking awful poetry.
“Forget it could’ve been brought to us
By an 8-year-old with a thesaurus:
As long as all our copy rhymes
Otherwise people will realise it’s bollocks.