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At the Metropolitan Gallery

98 words [1]

What will they say of us,
those who soon will come after
we lie dead in our pus,

our decadent bad art
that evokes a cuckold’s laughter?
Our people will depart

this vale, too, like a worm,
but seem much, so much dafter,
gone before their term.

Orcs lay siege to our walls
and yet our Pope’s a shafter
who does not heed our calls.

There are no pearly gates.
No bearded kind old Crafter
looks over our sad fates.

May our best, our strong,
man window, gun and rafter.
Life is short, art is long.