Klimt’s ladies peruse the décor with superior expressions.
No doubt they disapprove of modern
colour schemes, overdosed with pastel bland
in poor imitation of Bauhaus efficiency.
A generation below, Oscar leans in some New York bar
trying to look forties cool.
His name might not be Oscar.
I got him for eight notes in a second-hand shop.
Maybe he’s the lost child of the redhead.