Cave man didn't know what he was doing
As his hand sculpted frantic on wet wall,
Stopped, stepped back to view his stone-crafted vision,
Then proceeded through some shallow shadowed hall.
How ironic that a dark dank ancient museum
Should impart art that in earnest is least.
How ironic that the boorish, unknown artist
Should be man with hand and mind of brutish beast.
Cave man didn't know what he was doing
As he labored to a dazzling drafty flame,
Then darted to display for few friendly others
To preview, then proclaim by clan acclaim.
How ironic that a dark dank ancient museum
Should be understood by mere meager men as these.
How ironic to learn literacy's lost, first artist
Should be man that can neither write nor read.
And what future race may find Picasso dangling,
Suspended on some dreary dying wall,
Only to study for years yet never quite reveal
The intended significance of it all?
~ P.S. Colley
Fall 1974
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