PASSERINE TALK

A poem about the work of critics and their mandate.

They stretch their wing so silkily

With which they soar so high

And dive like they so wished

By humans, their drive is neither cracked

Nor is their exact idea hugely famed

Yet their lingo is always heard:

The passerine talk that won’t halt. 

In their patois when perched

With a vogue akin to an x-ray clout

They peek through our sullied will

Whence they ogle and filch the goings-on,

About whose matter they sing all day long 

Deploring with their entire valor:

The passerine talk that, certainly, faults us.

In, perhaps, cosmic pursuit for verity

And in a perfect songbird empathy

They tip off to pursue to moralize all

While toning acuity to realism

In a bid that spots us suaver than less

At best using their immutable endeavors:

The passerine talk that knows no vanity.

Yet in ignorance, we oft stray more than we follow

For seafaring the deaf-ear over the measly whistling

The fizzling that oozes from the fat bill of the feral orator;

From a critic that employs neither reed nor ink to etch’

The one who surfs the Web, aloft like the albatross

To flaunt the avian knack; to view near and afar:

The passerine talk that is fated to spare none.