Oh, the critics, When you use, Your fleshy and sticky tongues, Or, When, You scrawl your sharp pens, To peel the skin, Of your alleged offenders, Then, You look like a butcher, Chopping and mincing the meat and bones, Or you like a vulture, Sipping the blood of a half-dead cattle, Come shed your literary arrogance, And wrap your forked tongue, In a cozy shawl of praise, And prove that, To correct the torn skin, A pair of surgeonβs scissors is needed, And not a butcherβs knife, For sureβ¦β¦.