'Art'

Some claimed he was a martyr
As they led him to be hung,
Some rendered him incapable
Of telling right from wrong,
Others believed he must be insane
For his mind to be twisted so,
They watched him hang for the sake of art,
And the lengths to which he did go

A master artist; his reputation
Was great through-out the lands,
He'd take his dreams, and take some clay,
And model them with his hands,
With a paintbrush and a pallet
He thought he could never be forlorn,
He only need apply himself
And a masterpiece was born

But a master of his high degree
Soon tired of his tools,
He'd used all common mediums,
He yearned to break the rules,
It twisted and it grueled him
No solution could he find,
Until, suddenly, a sadistic plan
Formed solidly in his mind

At the dead of night, he kidnapped children
Aged from two to ten,
He tied them to his canvasses
And, with a manic grin,
He shot them: dead. To see
The blood markings they left behind,
He heralded them as works of art
And unleashed them on mankind

He used their blood as paint
And used their hair to make texture,
It pained him not to see the dead
His conscience could endure,
A masterpiece he made
With the deceased and their entrails,
It pleased him to finish the sickening sight
That would make his viewers wail

When charged with murder, he laughed
Then he admitted openly,
They hanged him in the Town square
So the entire world could see
What had become of this great artist,
And his sickening ideas,
The hangman's noose had been his end, 
Though he lived on in people's fears 

So, next time you pick up a pallet
And decide to paint,
Make sure that it is something sweet
or fun; or bright; or quaint,
Don't make the same mistake
This artist made: variety.
Extreme art is not accepted
In today's society.