Paroles de Michelangelo
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.
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.
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