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.
