The Real Art Attack

All alone now,
He begins his piece
An ode to those
Who could not appreicate
His ample art
With a strong steel gaze
He surveys
His tools of trade
Brushes and knives
Scissors and paint
Red and running
He used to decorate
The Children's home
Thick red lines
On the walls
Drip down slowly
To flood the halls
Sweet smelling carpets
Dark stained and soaked
Remind him of
His works of love
Children he showed
The magic of art
But they would go
To forget his show
He tried to prove
The worth of art
But he could not move
Their cold, cold hearts
They just could not
Really see
What he could do
Or hear his pleas
So now he will
Let them see
The real art attack
Finally their blood
The floors will flood
Where their bodies
Line the walls
To be burned
In gasoline-ed halls