An age old question,
Not one of little note.
When one side risks repression,
We see nothing or hear what's wrote.

A picture's worth a thousand words,
But does it really take that many?
I could tell of singing birds,
For the cost of one whole penny.

They sung and laughed and fluttered hard,
As far as little wings could carry,
And surely soon they let down guard,
Their feelings could not tarry.

But as certain as that stanza spun,
A picture in our heads,
Nothing's like when paint does run,
And those brush strokes sew like threads.

So pen or brush or sculptor's tool,
Strike swiftly while the iron's hot.
There's only one way to show a fool,
For them to say some kind of art, is not.