I leave details to paintings,
The scrutiny of the world to paint.
With smudges painters make history;
I give you only plaint.

The orphan has a story,
But today he only cares
For an abstract painting
And its hidden wares.

You can see a world
In a dark and light shape,
But first, things had to happen
To this singing ape.

I had to tell the painter to stop
Because I am the poet and I know
How to put blue morning in its bed
With nature high and human beings low.

I sleep upon your bed;
There was no reason, no sin.
Who knows this holiday,
Except I get to sleep in?



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