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Now that vile socialism is no more Rejoice for beauty enters in your door. We classicists reclaim the field. Like hell. Stereotypes, pig swill. Diebenkorn, Hecht and Larkin glow and sing. And so reactionaries--here’s the thing. You lump good, bad and wonderful in one Uncomprehending list. The names recited With malice and stupidity. Provoked By years of empty fashion you replace Indoctrination with bad taste. Years of post-modern levelling made worse. Your bland and vapid images now bring The images of Adolf and Stalin To mind, with post Pre-Raphaelite sweet -ness for Fourth Reich girls and boys. Manure that you fling At Schoenberg puts you right with Spring- Time for Hitler. How I thank Mel Brooks. By lampooning the past he made us see The future and I’m damned if I will be Approved of or included in their group Because I rhyme. It looks As if I want what they do, and I don’t. A rhyme can be subversive, and please lord, May I subvert their homogenised pap. Music that stirs and hunts for lost discord And words that disturb and stun a little rudely, Making the rising sap rise? Drawing-room niceness. Horrid stuff. Oh crap. Must I pretend these wolves hidden in sheep’s fleeces Represent anything but what they seem? Artists in the USSR were their mirror likeness, Blandly triumphant in their triteness. Wrapped in the flag of “niceness” they invade. We would be foolish not to feel afraid. |