I hate the callow ones who think they’re scholars
And have therefore the right to criticize.
I hate the ones who charge me twenty dollars
So I can try to win a ten-buck prize.
I hate the ones whom you will irritate
By sending poems two places at one time,
As if a geezer old as I should wait
For months on end to thus avoid this crime.
I hate the ones who work from one to three,
Then try to claim they’re buries in submissions.
I hate the ones who get all panicky
When they read something smacking of traditions.
But most of all I’ve really had enough
Of bastards who reject my brilliant stuff.