The man we chose and so we pose
Nothing short of an “Art”,
and then- that’s what we cart.
This Art,- flawless, magic-they say
Such class, such skill, mere poise- If I may.
We carry this art; wherever we go.
We claim it as ours and begin our show
The Art hangs on a nail, on a colorful wall,
I see those faces in awe and some of them appall
They think it is great, they think it is real
And then the colors fade and art begins to peel
They call it as Spurious!, fake! and false!
And then it is taken down- with a smeared applause
It sits there in cart, all withered and pale
Loses all its colors but hangs onto the nail.
This nail is its hope, to go back on that wall
Since its not its last and that's not "All"
