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A kindly word if you should please
Don't wave the blade without relent,
No hate nor scorn that cuts me through
And has no space for sentiment.
The critics hand although precise
Has often never held a quill,
And yet he always feels it fit
To savage and impose his will.
When rambling prose can reap reward
Against a finely crafted rhyme,
So easy to the ear and eye
Yet criticized as if a crime.
I shall not change my style or ways
To suit the mentors of this land,
And those who care to follow me
I'll shake them warmly by the hand.
ANDREW BLAKEMORE
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ANDREW BLAKEMORE
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