Jerking and twitching as he walks,
Neighing and hooting as he talks,
The shabby pundit's prototype,
Smoking his horrible black pipe,
Balbus keeps making me feel ill.
I've heard that Art's a kind of pill
To purge your feelings, so I'll try
And catch him in my camera's eye,
Transcribe him down to the last hair,
Ambered, though neither rich nor rare.
But will my interests be served
By having such a sod preserved?
Is Art much better than a drug,
To cure the man but spare the bug?
And gentle reader, why should you
Be led vicariously to spew?
Cameras just click, and a click's not
The sound of an effective shot;
Fussing with flash and tripod's fun,
But bang's the way to get things done.