Art is such a subjective entity.
Take, for example, Roxanne, the song by Sting and the Police. CALL the police, is what I say. Listening to that ear poison is cruel and unusual punishment. I've heard better caterwauling under my porch at night. Who decided that racket was a song? I have to switch stations when it comes on my XM radio.
So averse am I to Roxanne that I have never heard the lyrics. I can only make it as far as Roooox aaannn. Today it came on when The Pony and I were on our way to Grandma's house. I switched to the Eighties station, and a real song by the Georgia Satellites, Keep Your Hands to Yourself. The Pony asked if Roxanne was the worst song I ever heard. Yes.
Tonight, I looked up the lyrics for Roxanne. They're a bit sparse. I suppose I expected more for the 3:11 running time. A much better song about a man wanting a woman to stop whoring herself would be Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town, by Kenny Rogers. Now that's a song. And all told in only 2:54.
There's just no accounting for taste.