Description
Autumn arrived by chance, abrupt as a bald crown,
A sudden gleam, a head’s surrender, a king dethroned.
I trudge through the woods, where the overgrown path winds,
While they speed in trucks, with Photoshop’s cheap designs.
Collages crafted in minutes, photos of no worth,
I poke with a stick at a driver flung to earth.
The stick doth diagnose: his pride hath overflowed,
No self-irony left, just a vain, unyielding load.
Alas, he’s beyond aid, a brave death he hath met,
He thought art was a race, a contest, a bet.
But art is a duel with shadows, a one-handed clap,
A silent fart with a stench—no turning back from that.
Art ends where competition begins, harsh business takes the stage,
Like monkeys with ladders, bananas, and electric rage.
We snatch stock market treasures, a rockstar’s fleeting fame,
Launder the coins, and hooray! The game’s the same.
Now fools from all corners load straw on their carts,
Dreaming of roads paved with gold, but it all falls apart.
Straw sells for pennies, the market’s in decline,
Shall we post naked children? Greed’s our design.
In a generation or two, they’ll sell for a dime,
Paying the boss his commission—oh, what a crime!
Haha, it seems you’ve been had, the cycle’s complete,
A surreal Shakespearean farce, absurd and bittersweet.