iambic bastameter

Phone call from Rowena Hampton who writes the Entertainments Section.
She is the only member of staff that I hold in high regard.
Someday she will edit the Lootheramawn.
Or perhaps a real newspaper.
She said: "James I've received a press release about your new song. But the editor saw it and he said a lot of it is to be cut, and then I'm to resubmit it to him before we publish it."
There was a moment's silence.
"James," she said. "Why is he doing this?"
My answer wasn't long in coming.
"Sneeran's got nothing left," I told her. "He's tried to run me out of the place for eight years. And I haven't gone. Now this is his best shot. Messing with a press release. It's all he's got."
Rowena sighed.
"But why James?" she persisted. "Why is he bothered?"
"Because he's spent eight years covering up what he and Pieface did in that office," I told her. "For eight years he thought he could make me walk away. He promoted her to Assistant Editor. He was sure I'd be gone. But no. It didn't quite work out. Everybody else left. Everybody Rowena. Not one journalist based in head office over the past eight years has lasted more than one year. Sneeran is left there with Pieface. No one else will work with them."
"You're right about that anyway," Rowena murmured. "No one will work with them."
"So that's where it's at," I continued. "A dozen journos have left in eight years but the one he wanted to leave wouldn't play ball. You know what to do with the press release for my song, don't you Rowena?"
"What will I do with it?"
"Throw it in the bin."