South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings Paintings by the vanload are displayed – Portraits and streetscapes and abstracts are prevailing, Lots of dogs and Monet fogs and sailing-ships a-sailing. Will we find the next Van Gogh just waiting its unveiling ? Or likely find there’s nothing makes the grade ? It doesn’t bother me, for it’s still a fine distraction Where even daubs and dabbling hands can bring out satisfaction – But then, I’ve no intention of enacting a transaction, Despite the fact their purpose here is trade. Oh, sell them to the tourists and to trendies with some empty walls, I’m just browsing through the upright and reticulated stalls – Varied works in ev’ry sense, from almost-tempted down to scrawls, But either way, I never leave dismayed. Not pampered by the critics or what some celeb endorses, But subject to the fickle winds of naked market forces – Which might explain the presence of so many racing horses, With prices set by what the punters paid. South side of Piccadilly, up against the railings, Unfailingly is London’s best parade.
Whenever a line is correctly misquoted, It’s odds-on much better that way. The warts-and-all version may be more authentic, But sometimes the masses must have their sway.
To which I say: lead on Macduff, Let each subconscious cast its vote. Play it again, Sam, let them eat cake – I’ll defend to the death your right to misquote.
So: just the facts, ma’am, it’s not always garbles, It’s sometimes invented from naught but thin air – Or maybe the right words are placed in the wrong mouth, For no other reason than simply it’s there.
Oh mirror mirror on the wall, Crisis, what crisis ? I cannot tell a lie. We must disagree: Me Tarzan, you Jane, So excuse me while I kiss this guy.
But Hell hath no fury quite like the misquoted, Of being abridged and rewritten by peers. So brace for their sighs and their tuts and their glances, And no drop to drink but our blood, sweat and tears.
Some say, of course, “You dirty rat, You’re letting their corruption win through. You spare the rod and spoil the child – Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
To which I reply “Oh, not tonight, Josephine ! Beam me up, Scotty, from self-righteous bunk ! If you aim for perfection, you’d ask the question – Do you feel lucky, punk ?”
It’s elementary, my dear Watson – Survival of the fittest, in fact. We all gild the lily to pep-up the curry – And not a lot of people know that.
A couple of proposed Russian flags in recent years by William Pokhlyobkin and Andrew Khlobystin
Vexillologically Vexed
Born in revolution was the Tricolour, And suitably to radical design – Oh sure, there were tripartite flags before, Yet nothing like this latest Paris line. And afterwards, we’ve trickies by the score, As flagginess itself is redefined – Back then, it showed a total break with lore, By genius or accident of mind. Felicity, simplicity, Tradition would no limit be ! Their senses jarred by disregard For all chromatic symmetry. And so, unlike the world before, You favoured grand to bear your brand – Your tricolour said France for evermore !
Look on, you Russians, look and see, The repercussions flying free – For even in your own domain, Napoleon has come again. You took his classic of its type And switched the order of each stripe – And not content, we now discern, You flipped his flag a quarter-turn. I know, your old one had to go, The flag that evry’body knew – It still may shine in pure design, But there was nothing pure on show. And so, like Germany before, You forewent grand for safe yet bland – And tricolours are great for that, for sure !
Bricks by Carl Andre. It has a longer, poncy name – but let’s face it, it’s just bricks.
The Bland & The Brutal
This macho rejection of beauty as quaint, We bask in the ugly in building and paint – Those worlds of the graceful and subtle all fade, We cannot return back, because we’re afraid.
Gargoyles: always too damn small, A squander of a spitting spout – An impish whisper, not a shout. Apologies atop a wall, Embarrassed to be there at all, When always far too mono-grey, And always, always too damn far away. A shame, because their gothic clout That any stonechip ought to flout, Is blurred into a lump of flint. And yet, there’s so much hidden booty In their twisty, gnarly beauty, If we’re just prepared to climb or squint. But otherwise, these witty beasties – Masterpieces, have no doubt, A burst of sneer and snot and snout – Will never scare the nuns or priesties ! Make them bigger ! Carve them deeper ! Ev’ry goblin, troll and creeper, Give them gravitas and grout ! Let us see each gruesome grizzle, Else the mason works their chisel Long and hard for all of nowt, And all those wings and fangs and scales Are lost to time and frost and gales – But most of all, to apathetic drought. Don’t leave them overlooked, forgot, Or we shall lose the lonely lot, And long before their warts have weathered out.
Every critic will tell you which is cool, And which ones suck. And we are happy to let them, fool ! For if they’re right, it’s only luck ! We trust them to know our own minds better, And welcome their shame at our previous faves – We beg them for news on the new trend-setter, And willingly sign-up as slaves.
But if we’re honest, Then we must let our guilty pleasures rule – For only we know which are best And those will always be uncool. Whenever anyone states as a fact That x is better than y, It’s time that their advice was sacked – Goodbye !
The golden age of art Is the one we’re in right now, I say ! And ev’ry age before us Was as golden in its way. For ev’ry single year has seen Our inspiration in the pink – We’re loving it by millions, Despite what critics think.
Michael’s ones are round, But Gabriel’s are pointed – With orders, each is crowned, And mouldings, each anointed. With stonework tightly joined And structurally sound, Gabriel’s are pointed, But Michael’s ones are round.
Tusk-tusk, Tuscan, You’re just a stripped-down Doric, Sat squat upon your plinth – You don’t fool me. And don’t posit Composite, You ain’t so long historic – You’re just Corinthian That’s running-free.
If Bassae’s still Ionic, (And it is), And so are Ammonites – Then isn’t it moronic To insist that Serlio is right ? To favour Romans over Greeks, And not allow some playful tweaks, Patrolling boarders of the orders Just to keep them pure from mutant freaks.
The Tuscans and the Composites Were born in the Renaissance, When Italians made counterfeits To stand-up in response. Well fair enough, by why stop there ? Now that we have this president, Let’s have a hundred orders blare To prop-up ev’ry pediment.
This building, is it still so great ? No masterpiece or pioneer- And now it’s looking quite a state, And none too safe in brick and slate – It really ought to face its fate, Admit the end is near.
It did it us proud, it served us well, But now it’s really past its best – And as its city-centre dwell Has far more worth as bank, hotel, Or office block – we had to sell, In public interest.
So down it comes, and in its place Development beguiling new: A fresh design this site will grace, A source of jobs and conf’rence space – We may yet choose to save the face, And gut the insides through.
These architects with magic touch That turns the golden into shite – Their helping hand’s a concrete clutch Which crushes, smothers eversuch And chokes the life they hate so much, Because it shone so bright.
And when they try to match the theme, They cannot think along that line – Just vague pastiche and stripped-down scheme. Yet form must come from vein and seam As penetrating all like steam, And scream these forms are mine.
Their new designs cannot be stood Besides the old, for both then wilt – So segregate each neighbourhood, And save the past whene’er we could For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good – Will never be rebuilt.
I n the last line of the second verse, ‘interest’ should be pronounced with three syllables.
