THOSE CRAZY ARTISTS
Artists are a crazy bunch
Who never know their boundaries
They do not file their canceled checks
Or take their wash to loundaries.
Arrogant yet insecure
And prone to getting tipsy,
They prefer a
To mansions in Poughkepsie.
Sculpting shapes a child would think
Are very amateurish,
They display them in our parks
With medieval flourish.
Junk and trash and human waste
Are used in their weird toil.
You never know if what you view
Is plastered with night soil.
But crazier are people who
Support this folderol
And hand this stuff up to be seen
Upon museum wall.
Criteria for entrance to
These temples of refinement
Suggests the choosers ought to be
In padded cell confinement.
Craziest of all, I fear,
Are knuckleheads who pay
A fortune for some piece of junk
That might be an ashtray.
The bidding wars for sorry art
Push prices towards the sky.
Millions for a splotch of paint . . .
While darkling children die.
Yes, darkling children will insist
On dying without art.
But as they die at least they know
They are the sanest part.
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