Michelangelo

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
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