An artist laments the death of his child.
The gravel came striking down,
Declaring the painting sold,
For the artist it was a wonderful crown,
To see his name appear in the bold.
His wife sat next to him,
Nobody saw her moist eyes;
Sorrow filled her bosom to the brim,
Quietly she wept when everyone said byes.
Later in the hotel the artist consoled.
You really mustn’t my dear Jane;
This painting is a tribute to our son Arnold;
When he died, this painting kept me sane.
He was in the hospital, couldn’t venture out,
He pined for a glimpse of the scene outside our house;
But to pay for his bills his father didn’t have the clout,
By selling our home our poverty did I douse.
So I had no choice but to paint his dreams so vast,
The flowers and the clouds and the moon in the center,
It was this vision that he saw when he breathed his last,
How my heart bleats that I will no longer be his mentor.
We are now so rich, but our child we couldn’t cure,
Why did God almighty punish us such;
Never again will I hold a brush of that you can be sure,
For now I hate to paint which once I loved so much.