the critic

while the critic ate his worm
he liked it most in a cold steady rain
upon the hour of a last hot meal
or a warm and tender embrace
which he never seemed to try
his hair was always dry
as a crowd of athletic walkers
walked on by without a wave
as they were looking for the group park bench
underneath a heavy-leafed tree
maybe an old stately oak
to escape his depressing soak
Brahms first symphony in C minor
could be heard by their kitchen door
as the oatmeal raisin cookie smell
tickled vibrating strings and a fancy kettledrum
atop an open summer meadow air
there is never an endless ghetto there
for the maker of the fresh peach pie crust
the tuner of a Steinway piano and a treble clef
or a painter with her colors and her calico cat
or a clever strategist and a scribbled score
for the flute player fingering with a strong heart
each important note escaping at the whistled start
while the critic ate his worm