Picasso, fat, old, chewing on a pencil
Craving something comic, craving another sandwich
Mild amusement would suffice as long is it wasn't too dull
Listens to the cries of juvenile delinquents in the night
The sort of sound that takes him back
To a glorious time when all around him laughed
And danced, and sang, and looked wonderful
Drove too fast and painted as if possessed
By some drunk demon of creativity
Color and contrast, shapes and shadows
Splashed across canvasses by magical brushes
Hours of labor feeling like minutes of love
With the most passionate of lovers
Under a cold clear full moon in the early days of Autumn
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