The Art we delegate
From our own perspectives
Shapes our lives by our objectives
Down along the river
Or near a country farm
Intersecting thoughts which gather alarm
One sees it as this
One sees it as that
But who took the time to create the abstract?
Drunk on a bent
Metallic mouth of pills
Constructing a piece of horror for simple thrills
Other way around
Small city, big town
We have nothing to be ashamed of; these entities which confound
Orthodox rigid
Purely stuck in her ways
Running and ruining the lot, dictating thorough days
She stood so tall
Fat shiny red virago
‘Nothing new under the sun’, she said- let that swine waddle
Pictures in mind
Drawings in chalk
Some people are artists, while others are just talk
Strolling through woods
Park groves we stalk
The sights and sounds accumulate here on this walk
Figure a fitting label
Sit at sparse dinner table
The wind blows in performing a fable
Absolute absolves
We can make it, one and all
That of which we announce as “Art”, -exclusively they call
Most things are Art, and some things are not
To be an artist you must show what you’ve got.
