The critic sat there, second row,
His beady eyes flicked to and fro.
The doors were closed now, after eight.
Like coiled springs he lay in wait,
Barbs honed for action in his head -
Slavonsky's Ninth was his to shred.
The piece began, and what a din!
It stank of evil, reeked of sin,
A dreadful, cacophonic mess,
A storm which caused him great distress.
The sounds he heard seemed quite insane
A-booming in his frazzled brain.
At last he sensed the end in sight
And, then and there, began to write.
His crooked teeth were bared in hate,
His mind was in a dreadful state.
Until he settled in his seat
His masterpiece by then complete.
His mission done, Slavonsky sunk,
Out from the concert hall he slunk.
His poisoned words, with one proud click,
Were filed in less than half a tick.
Rejoicing in his grim review
He slithered home to scheme anew.
Next day, to check the final stage,
He scanned the entertainments page,
But something strange soon came in sight.
It couldn't be! It wasn't right!
He almost lost the power to speak ‒
Slavonsky's Ninth was on next week.
