There sat a critic of sharpened tongue
among a quorum peopled by weary peers,
nimble mind quick with arrogance.
Positioned before proffered thought,
pen dipped in acerbic contempt,
slashing concepts with smug sarcasm.
To question the tone by sarcasm
of your own takes a sugar-coated tongue.
Cover deep cuts in like contempt,
attempts to defend clipped peers,
will raise the wells of caustic thought
until the replies spit arrogance.
But what is this bitter arrogance
if not rancid fodder for sarcasm?
Can the sanctum of written thought
be licked raw by the taunting tongue?
Or will seats filled with censured peers
critique the critic by his own contempt?
If every quorum bore contempt
slicing ideas with razored arrogance,
would there be left the Stepford peers,
identical mocking sarcasm,
dripping scorn from identical tongues,
united by identical thought?
Minds harbor conceptual thought
unburdened by superior contempt,
seeking expression past the honed tongue.
Naked intellect stabbed by arrogance,
hard wrought work riddled by sarcasm,
the sharp tongued critic fences his peers.
Holding court over weary peers,
the self-important sits alone in thought,
nimble mind mossed with sarcasm,
pen loaded with sour contempt.
He fills his mouth with hawked arrogance,
unending spittle from his tongue.
Will the thought sink beneath contempt,
melt in acrid puddles of arrogance,
or lie silent on the severed tongue?