He wears flat-fronted trousers
And unambiguous shoes
He wears a watery stare
His sour breath hints of booze

He doesn’t like your poetry
And he wants you to know
He doesn't like your words
Your meter or your flow

With prodding finger, spit-fringed lips
His ire is plain to see
It’s not your prodding rhymes
It’s your ideology

He despairs of modern life
But is disinclined to change
He despairs there’s little to be gained
From this ugly exchange

But the poet knows that friction
Makes the sparks that light a fire
And unambiguous shoes
Will just walk his craft higher