I'll never understand modern art,
With its blank canvases and squares,
A piece of wood dangled from the ceiling,
Or just a row of metal chairs.
People pay millions of pounds,
For something that could be a childs drawing,
To them it must seem brilliant,
It can't just be me that thinks it's boring.
I saw a man spend five minutes looking at a shelf,
Probably figuring out for how much it would sell,
Was it even supposed to be a display?
Looking around the room, who could even tell?
When did art become so boring?
Where has the artistic imagination gone?
No real talent needed no more,
Just splash some paint on a door and call it 'Death of John.'
If this is what they mean by modern art,
Then I'm proud to be retro in every way,
No blocks of wood or half chairs for me,
I'd much rather fill my space with a Degas or Monet.
