The palette was brimming, but that wasn’t my plight;
the canvas of life was miserably white.
My hands were full, my mind was broke;
the best brush could not furnish a stroke.
I looked to the sky, and I looked to the ground,
I looked at beggars, beauties, but no muse was found.
I tried a bit of violence, some nature, some lust,
then crumpled the canvas and tossed it to dust.
Ahoy, a blank beginning. A painting to-be
happened to glance, by fluke, in me.
And there burst forth, a world so new,
it rocked the palette out of the blue.