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 surgeon’s scissors is needed,
And not a butcher’s knife,
For sure…….