The Critic
Ciaran O’Sullivan

The deadly decide,
In inward indecision they hide.
Spitting the myth of right and wrong,
Judging the song instead of singing along.
Dancing in squares never stepping on the line,
Unoriginal in decline.
Indignation, scalding my imagination.
On you I spit.
Sit on my paired-pencil whip…
Split your own shit.

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