Artists, I hate you all
With your canvas big or small
With your palette and your easel
Brushes made from hair of weasel
I envy you above all folks
And your little arty jokes
(At those who cannot paint for toffee)
With fellow artists over coffee.
What better way to pay for food
Encapsulating in the nude
The essence of the human form
Or stuffy men in uniform
Or landscapes of the highest peaks
Or an abstract scream that speaks
To those of us, who nothing more,
Would love the skills to paint and draw.
Let’s not pretend what is or ain’t
For those who cannot draw or paint
May well have skills of other ilk
Like making cheese from curdled milk
Or brewing beer from hops and barley
Or customising someone’s Harley
But probably should never choose
Careers in permanent tattoos.
So paint away, if paint you must
Express your anger or your lust
Your grief or other sad emotions
Or just do ships that sail the oceans
Or jungle wildlife in situ
Or any topic that may fit you
But keep your subject choice astute
And please refrain from bowls of fruit.
Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His rage is quite frenetic
He might not like it if you probe
His heritage – genetic
His family have been here
Since the melting of the ice
Avoiding nasty foreigners
To keep their bloodline nice.
He hates the bloody Romans
And the Angles and the Jutes
And the Saxons and the Vikings
With their tendency to loot.
He hates the dreaded Normans
Though they bravely took their chance
In truth he isn’t very fond
Of anything from France.
He doesn’t mind the Indians
He wishes they’d come sooner
As he’s partial to their Tarka Dhal
And Vegetable Bhuna
For centuries the xenophobe
Was desperately in need
Of stimulated taste buds
Instead of boiled swede.
He detests the poor old Hugenots
Abhors the bloomin’ Jews
And Somali’s are all pirates
He has seen it on the news
He doesn’t like those aeroplanes
Or ocean going boats
Enabling all these foreigners
To circumvent his moat.
“It’s come to such a sorry state,”
He’s telling all his mates
“I’m thinking about selling up
And moving to the States.”
The irony is lost on him
So let’s not point it out
For reasoning is futile;
Xenophobia’s about.
Beware the pure bred xenophobe
His Mother was a virgin
What madness to have random tribes
Genetically mergin’?
All poems copyright © 2015 -2021 Nicholas Trumble
