In The Echo Chamber
Now as we know, all speech should show,
The artist's refined facility, to exercise the mind
And ear, and dress the drama, fittingly.
This piece, however, is adorned by rags;
It has a threadbare script and the story drags.
The whole 'ensemble', quite simply sags,
With the limp unraveling of the running gags.
The coarse material, is too rudely spun;
The cloth of wit is poorly cut;
Not spiked by needle barb or pun.
An ugly garb, and crudely done.
It is the type of play we critics loathe,
We froth and curse and emit strong oaths,
We pull our hair and go mad in droves,
Lambasting fashion and all writers – both,
Who would wear their audience like a tired suit,
Or worse, strip us naked - diminished. Brute!
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