If truth be told I don’t much care for art.
Perhaps not art, but artists I despise.
They’ll claim their work’s a calling of the heart,
But I can see the truth behind their lies.
Pretentious men whose minds will falsely claim,
to have some noble beauty that we lack.
They’ve no real use and yet they still earn fame,
While you and I must work and break our backs.
I am a man whose labor you’ll not note –
just one of many men who feed mankind.
Unlike your art, my art keeps life afloat,
But my reward’s not fame, just this sick mind.
But I’ve no will to make it through this harvest!
Kill me! Resurrect me as an artist!