The new movie didn’t move me,
Latest album didn’t sing,
The next novel’s full of waffle,
And these jokes have lost their zing –
The critics are fawning over themselves
Agog at the new direction,
So who cares what I like, or not ?
This is art, it’s not an election !
The hottest fashion’s lacking passion,
Haute cuisine is stale and rank,
Their architecture’s just a lecture,
And their canvases are blank.
The critics are telling me I’m stupid,
Blind to the flash of genius.
So who cares what I get, or not ?
This is art, it’s always a fuss !
And the artists – they’re still having fun,
Living it up at number one –
They might not last in hindsight’s eyes,
But they grab the money and run and run,
Quite deaf to my self-appointed cries.
So did they sell out, or lose the plot ?
Or take their shot to change their scene ?
They’re doing what they want to do,
So let’s be happy too, and spare the spleen.
They owe us goddam nothing, we the fans,
They only owe themselves.
And we no doubt are free to try-out
Other brands from other shelves.
The coming poem, that’ll show ’em !
Maybe. Taste is so bizarre.
Perhaps I must bid you goodbye –
But thanks for the ride so far !