Poem: High Culture

operaPlato wrote about a cave

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.

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