Dave Bonta's poem is a short, sharp portrait of a certain kind of person: the "philistine," someone who dismisses art that asks too much of them. The first stanza sets out the logic of their defensiveness. Having found difficult art hard to understand, they decide they must be against it. The second goes further, claiming that nothing is ever beautiful, as if that makes them sound like "ordinary people" rather than people who simply gave up.
The last stanza turns personal and strange. These attitudes are compared to "unpaid money / whispering to me / not to dance." Judging by the image, the speaker feels a nagging, guilt-like pressure, as though a debt were hanging over any joy or creative freedom. The mood is wry and a little weary. The speaker seems irritated by the philistines, yet also aware of how their small, discouraging voice can follow you around and try to stop you from dancing.