There is something so superficial

About an art gallery

Strange pieces strewed about

For passers-by to see



Some people stare

With their nose in the air

And say:

“This piece is exquisite, what a lovely display!”

They’ll insist that it’s priceless but would not pay a cent

And others will question if it even makes sense

“How is this art? A stick glued to the wall,

I could do this myself, it means nothing at all!”



But though you think it’s insane

Your eyes still maintain



You’re respectful and quiet and do not make a peep.

Although you still think it’s a bit superficial,

You pretend to yourself that you get it to feel deep

And somehow it creates a vibe that’s… sort of beautiful



Some odd stokes of eloquence,

Mixed with trash on a shelf

But the piece with most elegance

Is the gallery itself