Seventy-six trompe l’oeils led the big charade.
There’s a hundred and ten lorgnettes that have scanned
all the fallacious rows of faux at event of virtual shows.
They scheme to find the forger’s hand.

Seventy-six trompe l’oeils cautiously were done,
so the hundred and ten lorgnettes try to find
in each and every paint streak something that would pique
their eyes; forgers even had work signed.

There were Pollocks, Schnabels, Picassos, and Will. de Koon’s,
Impressions, Expressions, even a Monet.
Basquiats and Banksy’s filled with graphic runes,
and exhumed was an early Manet.
An astounding complement there was of canned Andy’s. . .
Pop and Op o’er the top, Kinkade’s by the score.
Canvases of every size and trompel’ oeil faking out the eyes:
a huge Watteau, quel Rococo chore!

Seventy-six trompe l'oeils led the big charade.
Ah, but were they echt? Not abundantly clear.
Though the brushstrokes and hues were strong, not going along
were some critics who did naught but jeer.

Seventy-six trompe l'oeils were around the joint.
Intense gals and gents with lorgnettes everywhere.
In the end what showed the disgrace was a misplaced Poussin face:
the spitting image of Fred Astaire.