The Last Word

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.