Andy Poem by Gene Simia

His name was Andy, oh what a dandy, how he longed to be seen,
His thoughts and feelings, hung on a ceiling, permeated the silkscreen.
His work through repetition of color and addition, give a hint of the machine in all,
But upon introspection, points in the direction that it's just Andy Warhol.

His love for the famous, may suddenly shame us with colorful hints of the shallow,
But he often presented, and always intended to give a glimpse of the callow.
His orientation without hesitation is lined up on the museum walls,
But if we look very closely, albeit morosely, it can only be Andy Warhol.