Vajazzled Stye Sequence, Final

I'll 'A-ha!' when you 'Da-da!', be your
hangdog lapdog Vince Dingo &
your own personal Theo 
(someone to sell your art, someone who hearts),
if you don't pose a go-go, my girl Gauguin. 
O when you sulk you

sizzle l/ a Cezanne
in the boot of a Securicor insideman's 
sunset sedan, absconder after a fence's attention
to monetise his hot Tate pension 
of filched Impressionists
& the Expressionists they felched
(tho' only in the noble Athenian mode
of an erastes taking an eronemos
under his ring, I mean 'wing'!).
There's a Degas in the trailer!
A Morisot in the footwell, 
clogging up the clutch!
A Sisley in the passenger's footwell,
& in the passenger's seat, 
a Greggs' Tuna Crunch!
A Seurat pointing outta the sunroof!
A Bazille & a Manet between 
the shell & the chassis!
No Pissarro cargo tho'
- the Nazis & the Yankees 
already creamed off the Camilles.

Monet spiders of impasto Aprilshowers
are a freebie windscreen Renoir's squeegee,
parting gratuity from carwash clouds
of Securitannia, as our artnapper's
Salon des Refusés-replete saloon 
insouciantly mounts the Seacat's ramp
at sweatfree sunset speed, en route
to the Costa Del Peruggia
sans securicaution.
A victimless crime 'gainst Jean Publique, 
who's no aesthete.
& the Nazis & the Yankees 
are the ancestors 
of the insurers.

So, Dark Cow & my unherd of readers,
thank you for reading
the vajazzled stye-ary
of Adrian Steppenmole,
aged 27-38 & a Haller.
Other ways of testing your patience
are available. As for the moral of it all?
Dark Cows rend fou.