If the master’s opus can be trusted,
it’s no great harm to be a portrait artist:
you go out larking with a neatly mustached
man, soaking in the Riviera’s smartest
man, soaking in the Riviera’s smartest
vistas, pausing near a whitewashed ell
of wall to sketch his face’s sunlit half,
of wall to sketch his face’s sunlit half,
and if your pen should falter, he’ll just laugh
and gently tease you. It’s a bagatelle.
and gently tease you. It’s a bagatelle.
