The verses of Modern Art: An Exhibition in Criticism are intended to be employed like a rusty-nailed-fencepost by which you may beat pretentious Modernists about the head, repeatedly. The author leaves out no cheap trick of meter or of rhyme to achieve his ends. He employs adolescent singsong, doggerel, slanting rhyme—in short, every—mischiefmaking device he can borrow or invent is used in a manner that would shame lesser poets. Yes, he stoops to conquer. Indeed, conquest is his aim; his tactic, wit; his weapons, mudslinging, ridicule, name-calling, and other dirty tricks of antique pedigree.