On a Pastiche Pieta by Sam Taylor-Johnson now on display at South Place Hotel London

Here we have for you today

A little consternation given in a roundelay


There is a bloke

A self-proclaimed, self-gratulating artist/joke


Up to the minute cutting edge superbly self-assured

Come out the golden teaching halls full-formed, imprimatured


Adeptly able, feted every side

Told by his tutors and himself a wide


As long presumption of a bright career

And taken up by great acclaim into a stratosphere


Airs rarefied to breathe, to swank as made

Yet still a boy at learning how to shave


A plumber of ideas, of spoilage in cleared drains,

(Hardly a consonant among alphabets of claims)


Hauls up held-hanging on extended rods

Conceptions, maladies, depicting Man a clod


These in his eyes he sees, but goes unsightedly

Proclaiming in his projects loud, his lack delightedly


Claiming a ground to shake, where shock lies destitute stone cold,

Telling out tall-told stories, too much have been overtold


Of late, and late the present hour for a mutual resonance

Amongst his peer soothsayer rolls of impudence,


For them to glow with warmth to his passe derision

Which excavates exhausted veins for empty exhibition


Though some yet push their seventies, and being limp look backwards

Remaining and retaining time for supercilious youngbloods


Whose persons and productions all alike do grace a shame

Outrage by a common ugliness to seek a proper name


But yet that Figure whom such slanders cheap pastiche would rag

And travesty on pedestals for worldly gains – to bag


Stupidity’s attention and aloft go, famewards soar:

He them would catechise aright would they just knock his door


And have it opened, to admit light in to know

More things in earth and heaven are here than dreamt, Horatio

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