Do I need that black barre
To be an perfect artiste
It's smirking snobbery at least
Sipping wine, operas and ballet
Fresh grass and peach bouquet
Eyes embrace the lasting feast
As with the critics we are released
Seemingly, we rest and believe the cliche
Why cannot art be free
Allowing it's own plight
The truth is we're fighting the system
Expressing our undying right
Fucking up the stanza's doesn't mean it's not art
Just means I'm a true artiste; creating from the heart
Screw you perfection.
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