The Turner Prize by Rob Barratt
No Turners at the Turner
Just Tracey bloody Emin
No masterful masterpieces
Just masturbating women
No salty simmering seascapes
No homebound fishing trawler
Just the naked fore and aft
Of an amateurish scrawler
No mystical mist across the Thames
No spiralling seabirds
Just languid linear bodies
Described by misspelt words
For me she puts artistic skill
On the back of the back burner
But could she ever, ever paint
I guess my anger clearly showed
I was slobbering and drooling
When up stepped an art critic
To give me some artistic schooling
What a turn up, what a turn of events!
With no Turners at the Turner
He fixed me with an arrogant stare
His stern eyes couldn't have been sterner
He said, "It's the concept darling. Can't you see?
Yes, this is conceptual art
It's the ideas that are important
Now just where do I start?
You just don't get it do you?
You're just not one of us
This is a modern movement
Not a 57 bus
You're just looking for faults dear
You just don't know the score
Take Tracey's bed, what's that you said?
None of us can draw?
We are here to shock you
Yes, shock dear, that's the key
What's that I hear you saying?
You'd like to murder me?"
So I took him by his scrawny neck
And I strangled him on the floor
Then I whipped out my old pen knife
And removed his lower jaw
Then I hanged and drew and quartered him
And displayed him on a hook
For all the shell-shocked visitors
To come and have a look
And I labelled it "conceptual art"
They labelled me iconic
I became a millionaire overnight
Damien Hirst went histrionic
And today they queue to see my stuff
I let them in for gratis
So no Turners at the Turner
Turned me into the new con-artist