Last of the Famous International Scumbags

Chained and bound, the fallen star wept
As they dragged him into town
Once a King, the cursed thing
Had to abdicate his crown
People came from near and far
To witness as they'd harvest
His hands and brain, in hopes that they
Could separate art from Artist

"Am I only as good as my worst deed?"
The artist screamed in vain

The problem was, they hadn't the slightest
Clue where to begin
Could it even be extracted?
Cut from deep within?
Or was the gift inseparable
Permeating every cell?
Perhaps the Artist was just a face
And they need only remove the shell

"Am I only as good as my worst deed?"
The artist screamed in vain
While his work had helped to shape our world
His words had caused such pain

In any case, they had to act
The people deemed it so
Brain or hands, heart or skin
Something had to go
And if by chance the project failed
And left a bloody mess
Would not the world be better filled by
One cold demon less?

So the Artist was carved and died
And with him song and color
His wicked tongue could no longer offend
But the world grew darker and duller
Until all light was snuffed
And boredom drove them mad
What if his worst
Was just about the best they'd had?

So the Artist was carved and died
And with him song and color
His wicked tongue could no longer offend
But the world grew darker and duller
Until all light was snuffed
And boredom drove them mad
What if his worst
Was just about the best they'd had?