The Critical Critics Poem by Mark Heathcote

In-their denunciation of a star
Who, do they think they are?
Those of us, who, merely paint
Sculpt-or-tenuously write
What can we otherwise supplicate?
What indemnity of hope can we insure
Against, what will we leave in the future?
If we can't show some charity
For this our young humankind
If even the masters of art,
As these are, are felled down
Like giant oaks turned into matchwood
Just to be fodder for their food.