Some artists create a work
With all their heart and soul,
Transforming blank to beauty,
Making pieces into whole
And then that piece sits waiting
As observers pass it by
And the artist sees them miss it
And his mind just wonders why.
Another artists makes a piece
He knows that he can sell.
He doesn’t mind its content
Or if he can make it well,
But watches as his doodads
Fetch a price he’d call too high
And on his bed of dollar bills
He’s also asking why.
I’m sure a middle artist
Is just making decent bits
To make an honest living
With his fifty-fifty hits
But it seems that feast and famine
Is the rule where art’s concerned
And no one yet can answer why
That’s how the tables turned.
The Daily Travesty 