In serious conclave now the lords of Taste
Compare the tenuous charms of works ungraced
By any touch of wit, or sign of craft,
The null, the dull, the preening and the daft;
This lady plays charades; this man draws turds
Those two film videos too crass for words.
The judges huddle to evaluate -
But soft! A moaning echoes through the Tate!
Great Turner’s shade howls out: ‘Is this some joke,
To link my name to such dim tawdry folk,
Oh who ordained this handing of my bays
To artist-fools by critic-popinjays?’
Sweet ghost, these are not worthy of your rage;
Think them the flotsam of a half-mad age
When gulls pay millions for the worst of Hirst.
Fret not. This is a bubble. It will burst.
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