Their poems are always about the woods and nature
Each one has an eagle or some kind of a bird mentioned
There are no elves or dwarfs as in real life
Only snow adorned trees and conifer needle covered natural paths
Along the way down to a running brook filled with plastic fish
Where the circus elephants from London take a drink
Their poems are always pretentious and contrived
Like their hyphenated names and their bloated signatures
Which they scribble like scoliotic prostitutes on lines lifted
From other people’s work
Yet they critique the most educated of their peers
With a jury pool mentality developed while drinking beers
Where the loudest most boisterous voices in the pub
Take first prize for being the best bards of literary symmetrical craps
About the woods and natural things like shit….

2007 © T Sheridan

Ted Sheridan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-critic-s-society-of-poetic-genius/