On the fifth Brumaire, some révolutionnaires
Called a vengeful crowd to gather on the street
For a political solution, by means of execution
Of the young and innocent countess Mariette
In a simple dress with a round neckline,
She stood on the scaffold shivering and cold
Heavy clouds parted for a ray of sunshine,
And ugly guillotine was outlined in gold.
There stood a shameless tinkerer,
An artisanal crafter
And thought – My, what a pattern,
For a pendant slide.
A chain in twisted wire,
Everything in silver
And then a single ruby on a hanging blade.
Courtly ladies walked through stately palace gardens
Suddenly, a dragon swooped down from the sky
Grabbed a pretty princess, royal archers missed him,
And queen mother’s hair suddenly turned grey.
Everyone was mourning, dressed in somber colors,
Ladies cried a fountain, grieved without rest.
Our poor princess will never be recovered.
Who knows at what mountain the beastie makes its nest.
There was a bloody artist,
A cheerful artificer,
He made some notes and sketches
Of how the dragon fled.
An angle of the swooping
The clasp of claws around –
A girl is too generic -- an emerald instead.
On a field of battle, rifled guns were fired.
A bullet found its target, many more have not
Wasted and unneeded, twenty-some odd years,
Wrapped in wool and leather, were left to rot.
Where is our soldier, why will he not waken?
A cornflower grows through fallen soldier’s heart.
Next to it a bullet, an artifact of carnage
Turning into object of the found art.
There walked a simple jeweler,
A heartless trinket maker,
He noticed our bullet,
And dug it from the ground.
He cleaned it and he cut it,
And grooved and decorated.
And put some little cogwheels cunningly around.
Some think it is a curse, and some a triviality,
Historical examples will lay the subject bare.
True art is largely free from goodness and morality
A motherfucking artist sees beauty everywhere.