I stand before Madrid's most famous place.
Its gaping maw will soon consume a crowd
of tourists tempted, hooked on history,
and reeled into El Prado where they'll gawk
and swirl amid the best of Spanish art

in jeans, as Christ looks down with saddened eyes,
forgiving them. Oh, how the nobles sneer,
disdaining contact with this motley crew.
Prometheus endures the eagle who
destroys his liver day by day to warn
a mob of chicks who cluck, and peck at phones,
ignoring Rubens' classic masterpiece.

El Greco, Velaquez and others toiled;
their brush strokes matching might with misery
to entertain this intestinal hoard,
who swim amongst the entrails, hall by hall,
until at last it's closing time and then,
incontinent with age, El Prado shits
its tourist load upon the sunlit street.

They dribble down the steps. Siesta time,
so now the mighty monolith can sleep.