There’s a saying around here
I don’t know if you’ve heard
they say never p*ss off a writer,
we always have the last word.
Swaggering around the golf course
that’s just you to a tee,
with your fancy friends all dressed the same,
and you dare to poke fun at me?
You dine in the city’s finest restaurants
and sip your champagne on ice,
you’re a nasty piece of work,
would it kill you to be nice?
You read the morning papers
while your cleaner does your chores
and critique and slate my poems
well, let’s hear one of yours.
You look down your nose,
passing comment on the way I look,
this poem is me telling you
I don’t give a damn.