Don’t talk to me or tell to me where you roam
For I vanish in Europe and get lost at home;
It is all beyond reason, dancing in the goon light
Still never shy away, from an old fashioned fist fight.
It’s the galería de arte, the Godernists need to capture
They flounce like lunatics, drawn to the rapture,
Like a disaffected populist – living for a higher price
Or an English Civil war, now that would be nice!
The very gush of rich lyrics, a bounty would be worth
So frolic with the thespians – it’s your last night on earth;
Or secure a safe job, let the Les Fauves have their say
But when venerated by critics; Even the Vandals ran away.
Say art for the masses, well that’s so engraved in stone
Such bastions of good taste are never usually alone;
Any day is a bad day, just one thinking spree too late
As oceans of pretence, spilling out the Bauhaus gate.
So many mystified faces – leave the Confident embracing doubt
That’s when the panic sets in – then the guns come out.
With the Legless marching on the capital tonight
They’re all so La De Da – what a rumbumptious sight.
Legalise the dissident and the grave yards of Eden
With the prols back in fashion, its all that they been needen,
Ignore the Bastards absconding – from this tragedy apparent
Their sympathetic value is everything, if a little transparent.
Hear the Godernists chuckle as they drink down the funds
Still their arguments are virtuous, cos they all carry guns.
At the doomsday greeting; Yes the Artist is dead!
He suffered from terminal lethargy, when he fell out of bed,
Tempus edax rerum and anything else is mockery
To be smashed for entertainment, like inexpensive crockery.
