When the immortal drunken artist
Promised that after I bailed him
Out of jail, he would paint me
Canvasses like none other,
I believed him.
But I became a dissatisfied customer.
He promised colors that would put to shame
The oranges of August sunsets,
Deep grays that would be more profound
Than the cloud cover of December,
Electric blues more pure than the azure skies of April.
He said he would stick needles into my ears,
And inject my brain with acrylic magic.
But not enough appeared.
There just weren't scenes vivid enough,
Colors rich enough,
Manifestos strong enough,
Lives profound enough.
He'll have to post bail
Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory