The raven looms the scourged dead sky
And flies by night to summer high
To wisp what to a widowed brew

You think that's art?
*******.



Alone the raven watches steed
And passes plainly soft; meed
To hallow falls and morning dew

That's art as well?
*******.



My soul is that of burning ember
Subtle sparks to Fall September
I have not chance what claims I do

I'll say it again.
*******.



I tossed that out in miniature times
Those seemingly fantastic rhymes
Yet weeks and nights you “artists” plead
For an ounce of something, not just ****.


I'll **** some rhymes and call it art
It's painful cause you're not that smart.
You aren't unique and full of might
So let us real artists take flight.