Lying back to paint upon the ceiling

No, he never uses black, just the colours of his feelings

He delineates saints on a sepia ground

His tamper like his paints is albumen bound

Work and toil, well he ain't no dilettante

He conceives in oil and Vatican chianti

The rumour's out, his hobby is dissection

And there ain't no doubt he knows the body to perfection

Fourteen lines, that's what makes a sonnet

And it even rhymes - Buonarroti's working on it

Through the streets, stricken 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 and brushes

Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes