Poem: High Culture
Mr. Wren designed a nave:
Would it be so wrong to sing a song
Wearing nothing but a bright blue thong?
Drama draws the geriatrics
Attending matinee theatrics:
Could we frankly say about a play
It shan’t succeed if they won’t pay?
King Tut’s remains have been a hit with the learned and the low,
Who both attend until the end displays of Michelangelo.
Monet, van Gogh, our man Matisse
Imbue the crowds with awe and peace.
But make them see
And they’ll feel like they’ve been fleeced.
Verdi, Strauss, and G. Puccini
Are like sevruga to a blini:
Sublime, serene, a burst of salt
That covers the inherent fault
Of narratives beyond belief
’bout lovers, queens, and noble thieves.
Homer wrote his epic poem,
Tolstoy penned a longish tome:
Which begs the question of perception
Of artful acts of pure deception.
We go, we buy, we clap, we leave,
Happy to guffaw and grieve.