If art were only done for sake of art,
The stage would set for pittance and forgot;
Actors would act for self and not the part,
Audiences would yawn and be upsot.
The play's in theaters dark, quiet, bare.
The day, the month, the year of no consequence.
The actors, rapt in self, speak lines without care;
For self without regard of audience.
The play’s the thing upon which our mind is set.
The rest nil, of little interest to cast.
Those who would hear are not here, 'tis quiet
Reviews, well now, of these there’re none to bash.
Art in a basket, a waste, of specie
Face the painting to the wall, a waste of space.
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