Painting Fakes

So it's Christmas. For some reason this year I've been thinking of this wicked little poem by TS Eliot. The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood. Flesh and blood is weak and frail,       Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock. The hippo’s feeble steps may err In compassing material ends,       While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends. The ’potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach       Refresh the Church from over sea. At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.   The hippopotamus’s day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way— The Church can sleep and feed at once. I saw the ’potamus take wing Ascend