Dishonest Etchings of a Tart
Give me a break, you sow! That isn’t art.
You vomit forth your halfwit fantasies
Of rape, of rape, of rape, and, if you please,
Of rape. It’s all just pigshit from the start,
Less honest than the etchings of a tart.
And then you fall on too-well-padded knees
To add your pseudo-Christian pieties.
Only your begging wells up from the heart.
I know that some dishonest art is great,
Of course. The genius Horace shaped fine lies
That yet endure, although the Roman State
Is gone the way of post-triumphant sighs.
With Horace you won’t share that brilliant fate.
Your verses are as shapeless as your thighs.
(In beggar mode, the Pezzulo refers benefactors to her “works of art.”)