When someone is inordinately rude, I find it healing to vent my spleen in a Limerick.
So here’s:
A review, for all that it’s worth.
Of reviewers, from the Bight to the Firth,
Who ‘peruse’ but prefer
To condemn and concur
That the ‘Vine’ is for strangling at birth.
Thus, to a Triad of anonymous reviewers:
In Edinburgh there was an old Dearie,
Whose obsession with Carroll and Leary,†
So coloured her view
She couldn’t see through
Her own specs, the leery old Dearie.
A fewocious old Wolf-man called ‘Wuss’
So kow-towed to that Edin-Bag Puss.
Not to “twead on her toes,”
He pwaised her in pwose,
So sycophantic she died of the fuss.
There once was a frumpy Welsh Kitten,
By Carrollian tales so smitten,
She, on finding my ‘Curd’,
Pronounced: “Quite absurd
Such nonsense could ever be written!”
..................................
† as she called them.
The second person wrote a creepy letter to the first
before doing a ‘demolition’ as he saw it of my illustrations.
(The sheer vindictiveness of some people does flabbergast me, though.)
And my verdict?
What better place than the loo
For reading a book review?
So pungent and trite,
Just like my sh***,
And as quickly flushed away too.
[In case you are wondering, the ‘Vine’ is a jungle mechanism quite suited to the abilities of apes.]
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