I have always wondered just what they meant,
Those thirty-two cans of soup, all stacked up in a grid
All bearing the legend Campbell’s Condensed
Tomato Soup.
What a strange object to choose to tessellate;
And yet, how normal,
How commonplace (a scholar might say, “quotidian”) for Mister Andy Warhol.
Just like Marilyn in four colors,
Seen every day in nineteen sixty-two.
That’s when he painted it (them, I should say).
Cuban Missile Crisis days, and those bright red cans…
How ironic.
Amidst worries over Khrushchev and Castro, and that pesky A-Bomb, some things remain.
Like Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup.
That ought to help us sleep at night.
Some said it was subversive, or Marxist, or un-American.
All I can think is, “Gee, that’s a lot of soup.”
Poor Andy—He said “Art is anything you can get away with;”
Well, I guess he was right. It’s “Pop Art.”
The Jonas Brothers are “Pop Music,” and they are frankly terrible.
But Pop Art…well, that’s clearly something to hang on the wall.
Like the one green Sam hanging above my bed,
The little kitten with the pink eyes (I liked the colors).
His fellow was a prettier blue, as I browsed the gift shop,
But Sam is far more innocent; Pretty Blue’s real name is now a dirty word.
All twenty-six cat paintings were given as Christmas, Birthday, Special Occasion Gifts
All to close friends of the artists, just a few select copies.
I never knew the guy, but I can get a copy:
Just forty bucks on Amazon.com.
All twenty-five Name Sam’s and one pretty Blue Pussy.
Still, I don’t see what he’s trying to say.
All those mewling cats, all thirty-two cans of soup to slurp, all for what?
I’m probably trying to use the wrong senses.
But then, I don’t even know why I’m trying so hard;
I don’t like Tomato Soup!