THE FRUSTRATED ARTIST

My father once said to me, ‘Son,

By all means go out and have fun,

Dance and drink yourself stupid,

Get shot at by Cupid,

But a warning I have, only one,

Please don’t start with art,

Or from this world you will depart

A beggar, a madman,

A pervert, a sad man,

With a pauper’s grave and a broken heart.

Franz Schubert’s life was hit and miss,

He went in search of his first kiss,

He found a whore,

And became quite sore,

Because he’d contracted syphilis.

Art, art, don’t you dare start,

Or from this world you will depart

A beggar, a madman,

A pervert, a sad man,

And they’ll carry you away in a cart.

And what about that Ludwig Van B,

He wrote a Fifth Symphony,

How did it go?

He didn’t know,

Because he was deaf as a tree.

Please don’t start with art,

Or from this world you will depart

A beggar, a madman,

A pervert, a sad man,

Or all the above like Mozart.

One day I was delighted to be

Invited to tea by Dali,

He had egg on his face,

Ants all over the place,

And he dripped right down the settee!

The stains!

The stains!

Toulouse Lautrec was rather small,

But with the whores he had a ball,

For when he let his trousers fall

They saw he was not small at all!

Picasso, Picasso, all cube and all square,

Like Shakespeare and Schoenberg he lost all his hair!

Bald and bad!

Sad and mad!

Of writers, composers, and painters ...

BEWARE!!