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 Mad Men, 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 Flava Flav   (Flava Flav)      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