Marmite People

The art of the critic, WHY? Not knowing will guess, At what lies behind, The image when the, Artist knows not either. Was it by Elephant, monkey, An insane, a joker’s mind? Who given paint, crayon, Or charcoal daubed or, Tried to clarify, The blank sheet of Life. Surely Picasso laughed, When folk bought, Into daubs on envelopes, Napkins or scraps worth, K’s, Unimaginable; does he still giggle? Those who scratch or draw, May cringe or bleed at, Such miss-placed scribbling s,