Behold The Critic, bold and cold, Who sits in judgment on The twilight and the dawn Of literature, And, eminently sure, Informs his age What printed page Is destined to be great. His word is Fate, And what he writes Is greater far Than all the books He writes of are. His pen Is dipped in boom Or doom; And when He says one book is rot, And that another's not, That ends it. He Is pure infallibility, And any book he judges must Be blessed or cussed By all mankind, Except the blind Who will not see The master's modest mastery. His fiat stands Against the uplifted hands Of thousands who protest And buy the books That they like best; But what of that? He knows where he is at, And they don't. And why Shouldn't he be high Above them as the clouds Are high above the brooks, For God, He made the Critic, And man, he makes the books. See? Gee whiz, What a puissant potentate the Critic is.