Before Ben Hecht's Lily of the Valley, a dull, maudlin play laid in a morgue, closed last week, irate Playwright Hecht verbally horsewhipped the reviewers:
Sonnet to the Critics
Good critics who reject my fairest song
And spatter my fine shirt with printer's ink,
I'd bellow bitterly you do me wrong Were I not suffocated by your stink.
. . . but all my crimes Are amiable when matched beside your own
You theatre moles with inattentive ears,
A cough and now and then a kidney stone,
Abristle with your dull but fearsome spears
Who come to drama not to drink or sup But more to shine your...