In this poem I am going to
try and be as pretentious
as possible, and use words
which make me seem arty.
Rather than calling the sun,
'the sun', I shall bestow upon
it the name of 'evening's golden
disc', or something. And talk
about its effervescent amber glow
reaching from behind the clouds,
because it makes me seem
well educated. Doesn't it?
Who knows, perhaps I could
become an artist, just for one 
day. Not a 'proper' artist, but
one who frames a potato, or
something stupid like that. I'll
wear a Tie Dyed T-shirt and not
wash for days. I'll experiment
with drugs while 'evening's golden
disc' creeps behind the horizon. I'll
use the word ironic in every other
sentence, just to show that I 'really'
know what it means,
and I really will watch paint dry,
as I can see behind the mundanity
and into a world where only artists
live.