The Artist

February 06, 2002

The artist drew pictures from his heart.

His portraits were truly depicted in every part.

He could see the true beauty

Even though most people were snooty

And walked right on by,

Never bothering to say hi.

Though he had not a single friend

In his art he could always depend.

Everyone knew that he was poor

Because all of his clothing were tore.

His parents were ashamed,

And it was his art they blamed.

He was extremely smart

But cared so much for his art

That he could not have cared less about money,

And for that people thought he was funny.

He did not paint for the fame.

Many said that he was lame.

He worked for nickels and dimes,

And never really seemed to mind.

No matter what people said,

He never let it go to his head.

Art was what he knew,

And to his heart he must stay true.

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