Do Angels Fart? (a critic’s retort)

I stood and looked
at the Alchemist’s work.
She was paramount,
And surmount
amongst all
But I could not help
to think,
much like the Emperor,
Her words were naked:
profane, simple,
And ugly.

A sometimes crafter of jeweled verse
that flowed like melodies upon golden lyre,
had lied.

She had crafted a Fart
And wreathed it in flowers golden.

more deserving
of a golden shower.

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