"The Scream," the in-Oslo-spilled scream--
There's fright in the "Oh!" of that schmoe.
He's wearing no arable cornrows--
Like Trump, got no hair; Trump goes faux--
Uptight, and a face a mite long.
The sun doesn't rise up to far
In sky, so Norwegians are teary.
They screech and beseech and hit bars.

That was Munch's quest: to show the deep scars
In mankind's hopelessness, adrift in the stars.
Yet bright is the light that his palette has caused;
He has spilled some fiery red and yel-low, under which, paused,
Is the schmoe--can't tell if it's a dude by the way that it's dressed.
Does this art show guy, guy with face in his arms?
Perhaps wrong I have guessed.
Could be girl, a shaven tressless miss,
Not a man. There's androgynous parts.
Who knows? There seems no ounce of courage. . .
A screech in this stealable art.