Whenever the Critic

Whenever the critic cuts you,
and you’re feeling mighty blue,
just picture him on the toilet
making pooh-pooh.

Does he say your poem sucketh?
Does he say your story sinks?
Picture him in the bathroom
making icky stinks.

Let him castigate your lyrics.
Let him call your play a flop.
Later on, in the john,
plop plop plop.

He’s a wicked little fellow
of the wicked critic herd.
He howls a wicked bellow
and he shits a crooked turd.

Let him have his haughty chuckle,
let him have his carping say.
Send him baby wipes for Christmas.
It’ll make his filthy day.