This meter's the rhythm to which I shake my tail.
You told me my passion's a big waste of time.
Each new poem is my middle finger, in rhyme.
Every artist has critics, and each man enemies,
and they bite, and they suck, like mosquitoes or fleas.
But unlike the insects I'd rather avoid,
My critics I spite, pouring words in the void.
If I could, I'd leave all of them buried in those,
Under verses and rhyme, and a mountain of prose.