March 30, 2011
The Mona & Groaner
He's what you call a bit 'très graves', while I'm more tongue-in-cheek
Disorganisation is my throttle to his cool
Hearty, smarty, artifacts V everybody's fool
Then through the door he battled with a print of ten by ten
I feared I'd never see that sticky fingered wall again!
Ms. Mona ruddy Lisa, with her beady little stare
All that secrecy and numbers...who gives a hoot if they are there?
She stalls our guests for ages, champagne warming in the glass
(Just pop a straw into that flute for an extra bit of class!).
Gee, she isn't pretty (if she's a she at all)
Who'd give her a second glance - umbrella of the ball.
Yet, still they flock to see her - these madmen of the Louvre
And all she does is sit there (La un-sequential oeuvre)
I hear her sigh most twilights, keeping me from slumber
Biddy eyes that steal your gaze - a masterpiece encumber
She's hung out in the guest room, the basement and the hall
Getting goggled at by everyone with 'oohs' and 'aaahs' and alls.
She's clashed with all my glitters, this pinnacle of pain
I've prayed to God I'd never see that 'maybe' smile again!
What hold does one so haughty, have over Banksy's best?
Davinci felt like he's da-man, in silent-strokes behest?
I've often thought about it - her demise - quite unrefined
(A dart board and some arrows were the first to come to mind.)
Seems I'm stuck with her for ever - oily, spoily lady muck
Had her mouth been grinning ear-to-ear, who'd give a flying .................