| The critics are never kind
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| They thrive on the negative
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| They seldom give
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| Their praise or their thanks
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| And their word is sacrosanct
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| The critics are always blind
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| Deaf and dumb when it comes to change
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| Their feeble brains cannot penetrate
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| Until it’s too late
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| We are Degas, Gauguin, Van Gogh
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| We are painters not parasites
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| Which one of them will ever know
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| What it’s like to get high on sweet inspiration
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| The critics are lonely souls
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| Their job is a thankless one
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| Which must be done
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| If art is to survive
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| Their specialty is jive
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| The critics must earn their keep
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| By using pedantic words
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| Ones never heard
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| With razor sharp wit
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| But who gives a sh.
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| We are Degas, Gauguin, Van Gogh
|
| We are painters not parasites
|
| Which one of them will ever know
|
| What it’s like to get high on sweet inspiration |