All day long the painters paint,
Stroke after stroke, every one
In pain, as the man looks down
With a disapproving frown
At his wrist. He seeks for more
Time to take
From the colors
Of the artist’s pain
As they swirl and mix
With his eyes fixed
On the paint on every canvas.
They never let him down
In spite of his frowns,
Laboring on for the money
Until, that is,
It came to this:
No art was left,
Only copies of it,
And machines running the whole
Factory, with precision strokes
That freed those folks
From their painted burdens.
At 12 o’clock, he sent them home
Early, but to hereafter
Never smiling once, as the last fled
The factory, left still and silent…
Until the man pulled
The lever– and clicked:
The machines into motion.
He locked the door by a quarter ’til 4
Making money in spite
Of those who went home and went
To rest their backs to morrow–
When they’ll wake again,
In spite of the pain,
And go looking for more of it.
What’s better though? A pain
That’s real, and from within?
Or copied over
And over again?
“Sold to you: Today Only!
Three easy payments
Of $19.95– call this number now,
Don’t waste my time,
Hurry quick! You’ve got pain
This art can lift!”
If you act now,
We’ll even throw in this:
A frame to hang your very own
Certificate of authenticity in!
“Don’t you worry, folks..”
Said his contrived grin, twisting
Demand in his favor again,
“There’s plenty to go around!”