Oh Darling They've Found His Body!

Oh darling they've found his body! What already! That horrid little man. We'll have to leave the country, Someplace easy going, maybe Amsterdam. How could they find his carcass, When we bloody buried him so deep. It was a flash flood that unearthed him, And his corpse washed up in a heap. A heap that arrived at a policeman's feet, Who examined it knowing something was amiss. When its riddled with over fifty bullet-holes, The word suicide he so quickly dismissed. So we'd better leg it to Amsterdam, Where they all enjoy poetry there. And no cruel critic's crass criticism, Is ever breathed in fine Dutch air. It's all about our cherished poetry, We write and sell from our hushed bookstore. And countless critic's so love to hate it, Who we murder and bury beneath our floor. But then one day the space ran out, So we began to use our goodly garden patio. Again all space was quickly consumed, So we went alfresco a mountain or a meadow. There's something magical about the great outdoors, Especially when burying a worthless carcass. A sense of satisfaction of a job well done, Which many might find cold and heartless. For critic's are like the hated Hydra, Cut off one head then two takes its place. And we're sick and tired of killing them, For they are so damn easy to replace. Our poetry is our calling, forever our passion, And a little dabble of death a nice side-line. Curing me and the wife of any writer's block, When we murder a critic, from time to time.