Children,
Cute Little Tykes.
Isn't it adorable
They way they are oblivious
To the high and serious art
All around them.
Pricks the balloon of pomposity
So to speak.
Highlights our own pretensions
And draws a line under what's important.
With their childish giggling
and unalloyed joy.
Now,
If we could only bottle this.
Maybe have a large glass jar
Filled to the brim with formaldehyde
And pop a couple in.
Alright maybe all of them.
And title it.
"Homage to Hirst."
That would be ironic that would.
And don't forget to record the screaming
As you hold their tousled little heads under.
That's the best bit.
THE SCREAMING!!!
Little bastards,
Ruining my art.
I blame the parents.
