Lying back to paint upon the ceiling
No, he never uses black
just the colours of his feelings.
He delineates saints on sepia ground,
His temper like his paints is albumen bound.

Work & toil, well he ain't no dilettante,
he conceives in oil & vatican chianti.

The rumour's out, his hobby is dissection,
and there ain't no doubt he knows the body to perfection.

Fourteen lines, that's what makes a sonnet
and it even rhymes, Buonarroti's working on it.

Through the streets, sticken by the urchins,
Wrapped in sheets, round the town he's lurching.
Lurching to the church, heavy with a vision,
Continuing his search though they come with their derision.

All his works, you just gotta see 'em
Ask the clerks at your neighborhood museum.

Pope's on the phone, calling Buonarroti
But he's not home, he's gone a little potty.

He's off again, waving paints and brushes
Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes.

See also:
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