It looks just like a pile of wood
Dumped in the middle of the town;
They say that it is very good,
And might be worth ten thousand pounds—
Especially in spacious grounds,
Like those of Buffy Bagshott, Bart;
They say that it will do the rounds;
They say that it is Modern Art.

They say the test of time it has withstood;
They called it by some proper noun;
They fixed it with some old plywood—
It still looks rather tumbledown
Because the wood was only half-a-crown;
They got it from the Mini-mart;
It blew away like thistledown;
They say that it is Modern Art.

Hid in the middle of Sherwood with Robin Hood,
Or even in a shanty-town,
A work of that kind never would
Raise much more than a disapproving frown.
Could someone fetch an eiderdown
To cover it—or throw it in the River Dart?
Or failing that, just burn it down?
They say that it is Modern Art.

Envoy

Prince, you are go-ahead and should
In fashion take the foremost part;
But it makes your antiques look good;
They say that it is Modern Art.

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