Ode To An Unkind Reviewer Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I did not relish your review,
It took a hanging judge's view
Of what my Muse attempts to do.

Now, had I been a Saxon toff,
I might have laughed, have shrugged it off,
As would an academic Don
With tea leaves for testosterone.

But you. my dear, lampooned a Celt
A creature with a prickly pelt.
My race keeps grudges to the grave,
When we are kicked we do not cave,
And whimper like a pricked balloon.
We weigh your venom spoon for spoon.

I pray your dentist takes the shakes,
E-Coli crown your cornflakes.
May your physog be pox-embossed
Your fax be lax. Your wires be crossed.
Your body odour on the air
Be ripe's a donkey's underwear.

May your amour be impotent's,
A blob of jellyfish that's spent.
May his libido never rise
And cellulite engird your thighs
And when you slide beneath the covers,
May plaque and dandruff grace your lovers.

I call on all the gods of wrath,
To set a tide-mark round your bath.
Your rancid writings turns to ash,
Your crass computor screech and crash.
Your friends be few, your days be numbered,
Insurance contract be encumbered
With horrid clause in tiny print....
Your house burn down, and leave you skint.

Long may your morning coffee curdle,
Your winners fall at every hurdle.
The fusty fruit of your sad loins,
Be worthless as devalued coins.
Your mats have mildew. Greasy stains,
Lurk in your pipes and block your drains.

Should you possess a motor car,
May it break down outside Stranraer,
With balding brakes and leaking oil,
And tank, like kettle on the boil.

If fashionable shoes you buy,
I hope they slip and make you fly
Face foremost in a mound of dung....
Flat pancake, into treacle flung.

May all your canine chums have rabies.
Your cat have fleas. Your gerbil, scabies.
Your table catch Dutch elm disease,
A cloud of locusts eat your peas.

Your hair turn green...Your molars rot,
Your fillings rust, your scribblings blot.
Your windows leak. Your bedposts crumble,
The chimneys from your rooftops, tumble.

May death watch beetle chew your plugs,
Your linen cupboard jump with bugs.
Your TV, cooker, fridge, break down,
Just when the engineer's left town.

When your dry dust to earth is laid,
May it with D.D.T. be sprayed,
Vile Vampire, spewing froth and spite,
Who feeds upon what others write.

So sour and vinegry you are,
You'd make a champion pickle jar,
More tart than acid dropp by far.

Before you wield your bitter pen,
Your inky guillotine again,
Draw in your claws, and count to ten.
For should you others drub, alas,
This Celtic curse may come to pass.