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Michelangelo
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Slapp Happy
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1
Lying back to paint upon the ceiling ...
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No, he never uses black -
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just the colours of his feelings.
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He delineates saints on sepia ground,
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His temper like his paints is albumen bound.
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Work & toil, well he ain't no dilettante,
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he conceives in oil & vatican chianti.
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The rumour's out, his hobby is dissection,
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& there ain't no doubt he knows the body to perfection.
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Fourteen lines, that's what makes a sonnet
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& it even rhymes - Buonarroti's working on it.
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Through the streets, sticken by the urchins,
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Wrapped in sheets, round the town he's lurching.
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Lurching to the church, heavy with a vision,
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Continuing his search though they come with their derision.
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All his works, you just gotta see 'em -
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Ask the clerks at your neighborhood museum.
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Pope's on the phone, calling Buonarroti
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But he's not home, he's gone a little potty.
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He's off again, waving paints & brushes -
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Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes.
Slapp Happy - Casablanca Moon
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