  Painting pictures Worth nothing at all In a dark cellar Sits Isaac Ball. Cobwebs on his butter, Herrings in bed: Stout matted in the hair Of his poor cracked head. There he paints Men’s Thoughts —Or so says he: For in that cellar It’s too dark to see. Isaac knew great men, Poets and peers: Treated crown-princes To stouts and beers; Some still visit him; Pretend to buy His unpainted pictures— The Lord knows why. His grey beard is woolly, Eyes brown and wild: Sticky things in his pocket For anybody’s child. Someday he’ll win fame, —So Isaac boasts, Lecturing half the night To long-legged ghosts. Isaac was young once: At sixty-five Still seduces more girls Than any man alive. |
|
