Bad Poetry about Bad Art

There are four copies of this oversized print in my townhouse. Two are in the same room.

That Red Branch King upon my wall

Knows not of Danaan rhymes at all;

His constancy, his lack of will,

Are fumbles in a greasy till,

A flameless sword unless he act,

And I have no deep core for that.

And yet I swear he’s stalking me,

That blood-dimmed tide of constancy,

My stone in kitchen, bed, and hall,

He utters not a thing at all

A repetitious, fearful frame,

The Ketchup King without a name.