We toil in the writers' room
The windowless and darkened gloom
We entertain the people of this land
We've forsaken our great novel
For the sitcom and the pilot
Our blood and sweat and punchlines for The Man
We are the writers
We are the writers
And we are the wronged
Just like our brothers in the coal mines
And the stagehands of the East
We will suffer with just donuts out on Melrose in the heat
The producers get the glory
And the actors get the fame
We Cyranos of the back lot
Left out of the game
(New media, they're calling it)
We are the writers
We are the writers
We are the wronged
And all we asking is our piece of the pie
Without another season of <i>Mad Men,</i> I will surely die
My friends, do you know what will happen
In the end if they don't pay?
More of that Scott Baio show, and spinoffs
Of <i>Flava Flav</i>
(<i>Flava Flav</i>)
We are the writers
We are the writers
And we are the wronged
So we'll strike for our right
Just to write and get paid
Yes, we'll fight and we'll sing you this song
We are the writers
We are the writers
And we are the wronged