Critic

Why am I better than all other men? 
I do not have to prove it. I admit it. 
Here is the nail, and I am here to hit it. 
A blow that glances somewhat now and then. 
With pure intention I take up the pen 
That writes the truth, if any ever writ it. 
Venom is vulgar. I decline to spit it. 
Still if I must—Well, nine times out of ten

I do. I am tired. That book must be a bore. 
Jones wrote it. He was rude to me at lunch, 
And nobody quite likes him in our bunch. 
Smith said he liked my novel. In my bones 
I feel that I like Smith. But more and more 
My conscience tells me to eviscerate Jones.