| It’s not that complicated
|
| No more than a clench of fist —
|
| She want to paint her heart out
|
| She want to tell it as she sees it is
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| Authority condemns her
|
| They say to paint’s a waste without a base
|
| Some bedrock of idea
|
| Painting by numbers doesn’t add up
|
| Painting by numbers doesn’t add up
|
| It’s passionless bed-rest
|
| Work-body that’s headless
|
| A head that’s without heart —
|
| Painting by numbers doesn’t add up to art
|
| Her constant vows mean nothing
|
| Not content alone that sells —
|
| The Market Theory beckons
|
| No-one remembers what the story tells;
|
| No-one remembers passion
|
| We just recite the line
|
| That art is fine and fashion costly
|
| Painting by numbers doesn’t add up;
|
| Safety in numbers, put your hands up
|
| In mute surrender…
|
| They’ll break her or bend her
|
| For the heart on her sleeve
|
| Painting by numbers all the modern world believes
|
| And the whole thing falls apart
|
| When the movement’s more important than the art;
|
| When we’re more concerned
|
| With what’s been thought than said
|
| This is the moment when the culture’s dead
|
| It’s not that complicated
|
| It’s simple as can be:
|
| She want to paint her heart out
|
| They want a programme for the BBC
|
| Where academic critics can talk of art that’s fine
|
| Like holy wine — the Blessed Intellectuals!
|
| Painting by numbers, safety in numbers…
|
| The poets from Venus assume that they’ve seen us —
|
| They’re quick to depart
|
| Painting by numbers doesn’t add up to art |