A BALLAD TO THE CRITICS

Nay, nay, now I need fear no more,

that my true self you might reveal.

I’ve done the work (part badly, sure),

but all the same I’m done, all sealed.

Now come and find me, I implore!

All that I sought to do is ended.

Now I’m past reach of tooth and claw.

Why judge me? Judge the works I’ve rendered.

Have I confused you, critics poor?

Did you get tricked, burnt in your zeal

to read down to my ballads’ core,

reeking of liquor, flophouse sill?

Why? Did the poet not meet your

notions undreamed of, scarce intended?

I am not here to fight your war.

Why judge me? Judge the works I’ve rendered.

Not for your games here, immature

blind man’s buff. My cards shall I deal?

Though lies are not what verse is for,

poets may keep themselves concealed.

Leave me be. Young, or grey galore,

with or without a girth quite splendid,

with or without my own front door

– why judge me? Judge the works I’ve rendered.

Envoy:

Who cares what I’ve had to endure,

whether by fate kicked, or well tended,

what of my clothing, from which store –

why judge me? Judge the works I’ve rendered.