An epidemic plagues the modern-day
Of art that’s made without a shred of taste-
Assaults my mind and ears in every way
An earnest artist talentless is waste.
This art to which I never would relate
My predisposal relegates the thought-
A lying fool with ego to inflate
Would find in artists talent where there’s not.
They say my expectations make me miss
The purpose of the slop that they prefer-
But what’s the point of hearing art like this
Were it not made to please the listener?
These narrow-minded idiots can’t see
That art is trash if it’s not made for me.
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