Thou Art Useless, Art, Thou Art Grey

Art can never change the world,
it can never make the veil unfurl,
indeed it can make them stop and stare,
for a moments notice in sweet despair.
In that fanciful limbo someone may think,
perhaps it is art that has sought the brink
of all the anarchy that does prevail
and made it wonder to its avail,
but art only patronizes the anarchist,
and like ignorant children the artist,
may paint or write or speak his sense
but he does so for he knows nothing else,
and people they adore the poems of treason
but the truth is, life has no such reason.
The poor they live for a loaf of bread,
the faithful hang on by a breaking thread,
the thinkers write words for those they pity,
and sell those words to the ruling rich,
the painter can draw of the needy and gritty,
then auction it off to the greediest bitch.
You talk of art and some impending change?
you speak of people as if you know them all,
but when you shall know how artful range
hardly aides the weak in fall,
feel free to show the abject grim
mortal for whom art is but colorful fray,
and fanciful wordplay means naught to him
for thou art useless, art, thou art grey.

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