Rug was on, its hue not brown, the brushes strokin’.
The quotidian expressed in 60’s time. . .
took a can of Campbell’s soup most saw as nothin’

And by a few simple movements of brushin’,
everyday object became something sublime.
Brush was on, its hue not brown, the canvas strokin’.

Critics knockin’ faux fur rockin’ on his noggin;
nearly palpable, New York Times panner’s whines:
“Painted a can of soup!” they scoffed. “He cozens!”

But he’s hot among avant garde who were purrin’
that he’d busted bound of formalism’s binds.
Race was on to give him renown for brush strokin’.

Naught but glorification from them, but searching
Was a woman for the fame of the same kind,
and her cranial coop was close to bustin’.

A gat she got; wasn’t squibs it was squirtin’.
Into him they tore, not making Andy fine.
Rug stayed on, as he went down—the gun still smokin’;
blood red as a Campbell can medics stopped spurtin’.

Saved, he bought it where healthcare he had sought it
Postoperatively in New York Hospit’.