(lone harpsichord, a slow tragic flourish)To be, or to not be — that is the question I posewhether tis nobler in the inbox to sufferthe slings and the arrows of net-ninety prose,or to take arms against a sea of approvalsThe freelancer's dread, the slow-walk of the wire...forty days have passed since I rendered the fire...my landlord doth circle, my fridge groweth bare...will the client reply? Doth the client even care?(beat drops — drill 808s, autotuned rap)To be or not to be — depends if they pay my invoicethe question of the age, I got no other choicesI delivered every pixel, I delivered every linenow I'm refreshing my email like it owes me my whole lifeNet thirty turned to net never, that's the loreI sent the polite reminder, then I sent four moresent it with a smiley so I don't sound aggressiveinside I am Hamlet and the ghost is my expensesTo be or not to be — depends if they pay my invoicethe question of the age, I got no other choicesI delivered every pixel, I delivered every linenow I'm refreshing my email like it owes me my whole lifePer my last email, per my last email, per my lastthe politest words a broke and dying poet ever castay, there's the rub — they ghosted, and the rent is coming fast(harpsichord returns, alone, tragic)the rest... is silence... and a pending payment
