When I look at art,
I become convoluted,
it tears me apart,
it has become polluted.
Since when did **** on a wall,
or a picture of a tease,
stop to appall,
and begin to please.
The idea of being ironic,
induces the idea of being lazy,
the laziness is chronic,
and fine lines become hazy.
As we tell ourselves it is beyond meaning,
we leave it to the experts to analyze the farce,
but to buy this stuff is demeaning,
it would seem true art is scarce.