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My inner critic spoke to me,
distinctly unimpressed.
Dear Sir, put down the pen said she,
for all it would be best.

The words you use are drab and stale
the thoughts expressed, archaic.
Each metaphor is doomed to fail,
your poetry's prosaic.

Your similes are so contrived
as to be almost comic.
"Like brick-bound swan she dived,"
you say, "into her sin and tonic."

No refuge is there in your prose,
with neither style nor sense.
Words die therein, in thrashing throes
Sir, what was their offence?

Your words are graspings with no reach
you jest with mirthless japes
Sir, thus to speak - it is no speech,
a Tantalus sans grapes

Vanity - your muse, she lurks,
She renders you self-smitten
Sir, I assure you your best works
are ones ever unwritten

My inner critic spoke to me,
distinctly unimpressed.
Dear Sir, you've said enough, said she,
let silence be the rest.

 

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