They feel so bad when they see certain lines
that are loathsome, far from fine.
They are gonna shield us from slime,
the bluenose crew.

Savin’ eyes from seein’ grime,
workin’ on it overtime,
lookin’ forward to none of this kind,
the bluenose crew.

They will attack as taint
what you paint,
the bluenose crew.
They want art that’s “fine”;
brook no churlish swine,
the bluenose crew.
They like pictured boats
and sweet swans that float. . .
dictate what we should see.
They do not want your eyes
to gaze gals, guys
in full nudity.

Want to see a cute baby hen
or perhaps a fluttering wren.
Another choice: an airbrushed Ken
for bluenose crew.

Savin’ eyes from seein’ slime,
workin’ on it overtime,
lookin’ on it as a crime,
the bluenose crew.

They want sackcloth and saints,
no paint taints,
the bluenose crew.
They crave art that’s “fine”;
brook no churlish kind,
the bluenose crew.
They like pictured boats
and sweet shambling shoats. . .
dictate what we should see.
They do not want your eyes
to see pink skies. . .
not reality!

Only joy they find:
Kinkade and his kind. . .
no sylphs ’neath moon
naked in waltz time.
The treacle way
always holding sway
in gauzy still lifes.
The word starts with P-U,
puritan crew—
nose hue is blue.