|
Through the door it slithers in, |
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Accompanied by its peers. |
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Always groveling for attention, |
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While no one really hears. |
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In its mind it's full of wit |
|
And quite the social king. |
|
It plants itself among the rest, |
|
to give its deadly sting. |
|
It's just a matter of opinion. |
|
Further now there's a man of taste. |
|
Of talent and precision. |
|
To work and strive at his artform. |
|
Has been his life's decision. |
|
The stage is set. The perfect show |
|
Is put before the mass. |
|
Only to be ridiculed |
|
by some slimy, pompous ass. |
|
It's just a matter of opinion. |
