Everyday Poems

Sold for a million 

To the man on the phone 

The auctioneer says 

In his   

emotionless drone 

A picture of working men 

going to the game

Painted before Lowry 

achieved greatness 

And fame

He would, no doubt  

Turn in his grave 

If he knew his work

Was  in a system 

so depraved 

Meanwhile Cornelia 

blows up a shed

And Damian 

sticks diamonds 

on a head

Banksy, 

Not the goalkeeper 

In rebellious stead

Artwork on the hammer shreds

So what will it’s value be 

When she is dead