I know what I like

There's nothing gives bad dreams at night
as seeing the detailed, excessively bright,
crimes against taste
produced in great haste
by Kinkade, the painter of shite.

With gobs and gobs of fluorescent paint
he gives us a world with no taint
so bright and so twee
it's painful to see,
and would infuriate any saint.

Now, I've got nothing against light
nor cottages glowing at night,
but laid on so thick
it makes the heart sick
and the soul quails under the blight.

Kincade's work no product of luck,
he produces them all by the truck-
loads of crap
sent all over the map,
and real artists groan and say "fuck!"

To call this sugary stuff "art"
gives painters and sculptors a start;
they know it is bad
and what is so sad
is that Kincade just doesn't give a fart.