Mum came and cleared the plates
where I was sitting with my mates. 
She said: Gosh, look at this tablecloth.
Has a wretched bomb just gone off?

This is the worst that I’ve ever seen!
It’s impossible now to get it clean.
Some chocolate sauce is stuck right here
and what’s that other nasty smear?

Some yellow goo and a bit of green,
and a squelch of ketchup in between.
There’s dabs and daubs on all the walls.
Good grief! this muckiness really appalls.

There’s splats and drips upon the ceiling,
but wait... all this action painting is revealing
that you have a flair for colour-field theory.
Your obvious skill now makes me so cheery!

You have a finesse for texture and tone;
I was way out of line, when I did moan.
We have a boy genius here at this table.
I’ll go and purchase paint brushes of sable.

Let’s sell this tablecloth to the Tate Gallery;
get pots of cash – more than Dad’s salary.
You’ll be so giddy rich and crazy with fame.
The art world’s a con. We can play that game!

And when visitors look at it with dismay,
scratching their heads we’ll hear them say:
“That could have been done by a child of three.”
Then you can say: “Yes, it was done by ME!”