Everyone's A Critic

I do not dream to play the art connoisseur, 
as if Da Vinci critiqued Wassily Kandinsky.

If he had, he'd be glad, to lay him off of the acid
and alleviate his insanity. 

I need not learn french to find beauty
in Edith Piaf's "La Vie en rose".

Nor bury myself in a bowl of croissants 
to appreciate Baudelairean prose.

Surely Wilde and Van Gogh would laugh at Picasso
while tossing back their green fairies.

And even poor Jani Lane will suffer in pain
from a legacy stained red by cherries. 

The truth is that art can not be dissected apart
by hands simply looking to break.

Sometimes consuming, or all to presuming
but never an idle mistake.

Art is a collection of colorful expression
to often judged with disdain.

As though one owes explanation to an artistic nation
inundated by the blatantly vain.