I remember you when you were funny,
so I will try and be kind.
Your Baby Lobster script,
which crawled into my inbox
late on Tuesday night
is not all it could have been.

The part about the blowfish,
well, what can I say, it blew.
And the bullied manatee, okay,
the way you wrote him, Josh,
I wanted to punch him myself.
And, as for your Baby Lobster,
did she really need to wear a bib?

Structurally, I found your script
to be on the verge of collapse,
not unlike linear television.
Your ending, for example,
arrived (mercifully) in the middle,
which is where I stopped reading.

Finally, your songs did not sing to me.
Even I, who went to Wharton,
can think of better rhymes
for “octopi” than “calliope.”
(Sky. Guy. Blink-of-an-eye.)
I could go on, but you get my point.

Let me know if you’d like to chat
otherwise, I’ll await draft 3
like a baby harp seal awaiting
a blow to the head. And I won’t
be upset if, for any reason,
(an act of God, Alzheimer’s)
it simply does not arrive.