The ballad of Art the Fart

When he was little
and in his pants did piddle,

Arthur the Fart,
as he was known,

could not quite tell
a dog from a bone.

In later years,
however,

he became
increasingly clever.

In rooms intended
for perambulation

he’d place what’s called
an installation:

cut-up and dried scats,
degenerated rats,

his grandpas’s shaver
and things even graver,

his and his lover’s
used underwear,

assorted bunches
of pubic and other hair,

plastic bottles emptied
of their content,

in short:
everything that lent

itself to presentation
became an installation.

Art-hungry hordes arrived,
illuminate critics applauded –

Art’s installations
were highly lauded.

Except one nasty soul
from way back when,

who used to play with the
installator in the pen

and then became
an unknown artist,

but counted himself
among the smartest,

to end the farce
swore that he would

make it go up in smoke,
and sure he could.

Henceforth, Art’s
every installation

turned into a pyre
for illustration.

Unperturbed in
his career,

Art said
that all was here

and now,
accepting fire

with a
bow:

Whoever
has a heart for art,

please bear with me –
Art the Fart.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Posted for Sunday Scribblings' Art.