The critic prowls the haunts of man, to pounce with ghoulish glee/
Upon those things he cannot stand, with stinging repartee/
His own opinion is the only worthwhile monument/
Ev’ry other notion is, at most, incompetent/
His nose is out of kilter and his brow is beetled deep/
And the bile within his gullet up his throat doth gently creep/
Peaceful coexistence is not part of his design/
And he’s only ever happy if he makes you lose your mind/
He picks upon a scab until it crimson flows once more/
He picks up imperfection like a common stevedore/
His charity is cold as ice, his kindness microscopic/
All the world to him is seen through eyes too much myopic/
He misses all the beauty that the world provides amain/
He is only generous when he gives out some pain/
Fie on thee, dull critic; your tropes are but a dream/
Please take them, with some sandpaper, and up your backside ream!
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