Bad artists are so boring. Tell me, why would they make art?
For the sake of the unfortunate not even a toothpick's glory
or to make, if I may say so, deadly sad our men of theory and far beyond
species of unknown dactyflora struggling with the embellished story,
or, worse, yes I would call it worse, to gleam inglorious in some dark shade of fame,
famous but for the worse, and sad enough
apparently there in the many distortions of history it could have had.
Tell me, mummy, dad, and you folks of heaven's brothel, would it be art?
In the main room shelves thick of catalogues and books
earn more living than the spoiled whites it took. Would it be art
hidden beneath that gentle touch of a philantrophists' look?
Tell me folks, why make me sick and sad.