Critics

I don’t like critics

I never ever have

Critics are like drunken

Bullies or step fathers

Who feel they must

But never enjoyed the

Making of the child

That they now discipline

Critics wear chips on

Their shoulders like epaulettes

Angry and incapable of

Rising to the occasion

Impotent yet needing release

So they look to

Others like obese men

Sitting in their basements

Trousers around their ankles

Men and women writhing

On their computer screens

Forever wishing but always

Knowing that they’ll never

Such a frustrated life

These unfortunate critics have