Crap
(Dee Shipman / Charles Aznavour)

Seeing these pictures that reveal 
No sign of life, and nothing real 
You’d think some backsides here should feel 
A kick or great slap 

Decadent servitors of art 
They should be beaten from the start 
Because these doddery old farts 
Only create crap! 
Only create crap! 

Academicians play the game 
No drop of genius to their name 
They uglify our halls of fame 
With dated clap-trap 

One wonders how they have the nerve 
To hang their sentimental oeuvres 
When did our galleries deserve 
To have all that crap? 
To have all that crap? 

The lesser Goyas, Poussin fakes 
The salon’s fashionable flakes 
Have no idea what true art takes 
Daubers of pure pap 

They judge us condescendingly 
Treat us like arseholes, yet can’t see 
That they produce, unendingly 
Nothing but more crap! 
Nothing but more crap! 

The auctioneers never pursue 
The starving modern artists, who 
Work on for love, though quite a few 
Give up, and some snap 

These are the painters, cursed and spurned 
Whose genius never is discerned 
Until they’re dead, when they in turn 
Rot and become crap! 
Rot and become crap! 

We the pariahs will unite 
Join the free thinkers in their fight 
And show our own work with delight 
Proud when they all clap 

We’ll knock pretension to the ground 
Scandalise every beard and gown 
At every viewing day in town 
Screaming “It’s all crap!” 
Screaming “It’s all crap!”