We toil in the writers' roomnThe windowless and darkened gloomnWe entertain the people of this landnWe've forsaken our great novelnFor the sitcom and the pilotnOur blood and sweat and punchlines for The MannnWe are the writersnWe are the writersnAnd we are the wrongednnJust like our brothers in the coal minesnAnd the stagehands of the EastnWe will suffer with just donuts out on Melrose in the heatnThe producers get the glorynAnd the actors get the famenWe Cyranos of the back lotnLeft out of the gamen(New media, they're calling it)nnWe are the writersnWe are the writersnWe are the wrongednnAnd all we asking is our piece of the pienWithout another season of Mad Men, I will surely dienMy friends, do you know what will happennIn the end if they don't pay?nMore of that Scott Baio show, and spinoffsnOf Flava Flavn(Flava Flav)nnWe are the writersnWe are the writersnAnd we are the wrongednnSo we'll strike for our rightnJust to write and get paidnYes, we'll fight and we'll sing you this songnWe are the writersnWe are the writersnAnd we are the wronged