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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, & there ain't no doubt he knows the body to perfection. Fourteen lines, that's what makes a sonnet & 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 & brushes - Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes. From Letras Mania