He painted her, and a canvas stood as he did
And when done, they both sold in shillings
Were they happy? They never understood
They were happy they supposed,
Yet were they not unhappy? for they were told.
“Like a painting of Mona Lisa”, she said,
“We feel happy when the paintings sell,
But I think when the money doesn't count well,
We feel the need to be unhappy once again”,
“It is almost funny”, he said,
“We eat, we eat enough,
And then we mourn, 'Why's the kitchen not stuffed?’
Correct me if I'm wrong, I would suppose not,
But doesn't Lisa smile a lot?”
She wept that evening, the paintings stood,
Seeing the tears wet the canvas wood
“Why must you cry? Tell me now!
And never before such misery,
Should our heads ever bow!”
“Oh! The door is broken!” She cried;
“Then I'll fix it right away, don't you mind!”
“There's not enough money”,
The sound suddenly loud;
“Don't you worry dear, a way shall be found”
But the tears stopped not
And slowly the feet began to drown
“This house, it's a rat-hole I say!
Paint more! This life--Oh, my life I dismay!”
He shuffled to his feet,
Tears sprinkling through the heat
Hands ran across the canvas, night and day
And when the house was big enough?
She found,the bed was too tough to lay
So he painted, yes, through the cries
Yet the paintings slowly lost their price
She fumbled then-- wept through that night
And when the sun had come to rise
We found their paintings washed outside