It's Not Me, It's You

It's Not Me, It's You

To the Critics

Critics of the world

Throughout space and time

I must confess

To a horid crime

Because of you I can't express

A single thought on my mind

A girl who likes to rhyme

It's just personal, not rafined

TS Eliot, I hate you, bastard

I used to care

But now I'm plastered

So go you-know-where!

*     *     *

"The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done."

FUCK YOU!