Quid est pictura?—Veritas Falsa.
(Epictetus.)
Take a lot of black triangles,
Some amorphous blobs of red;
Just a sprinkle of queer spangles,
An ill-drawn Medusa head;
Some red locks in Gorgon tangles,
And a scarlet sunshade, spread:
Take a "portière" quaint and spotty,
Take a turn-up nose or two;
The loose lips of one "gone dotty,"
A cheese-cutter chin, askew;
Pose like that of front-row "Tottie,"
Hat as worn by "Coster Loo";
Take an hour-glass waist, in section,
Shoulders hunched up camel-wise;
Give a look of introspection
(Or a squint) to two black eyes;
Or a glance of quaint dejection,
Or a glare of wild surprise;
Slab and slop them all together
With a background of sheer sludge;
(Like a slum in foggy weather),
And this blend of scrawl and smudge
Vend as ART—in highest feather!—
Dupes in praise will blare and blether.
Honest Burchells will cry—"FUDGE!!!"