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!”