O, hard is the struggle (with an iPhone) and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top of the dung heap,
For selfie-art is a form of catharsis
A love of failure is a permanent flop,
And work the province of the paparazzi cattle call,
And the rest’s for a happy clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of drinking too much, throwing up, the battle of the dinner —
Would you kindly direct me to the hell of Correspondents?
(With apologies to the divine Miss Dorothy Parker.)