If I could paint a picture of a woman
I’d paint it all over the sky,
I’d make her eyes so stunning,
that grown men would cry.
I’d make her hips so rounded,
I’d make her hair so free
that every struggling artist
would say “come and paint for me!”
I’d make her legs so wicked
I’d make her lips so round,
that aeroplanes would panic
and fly without the sound.
I’d make her arms so silky,
her back a golden arch,
the military would whimper,
forgetting how to march.
The people would employ me,
a dollar for a peek,
saying “make this woman perfect,
she’s everything we seek.”
And I would paint with gusto,
and splash the colours true,
her lips like streaks of crimson,
her eyes like azure blue.
They’d pay me when I’d finished,
saying “do it once again,
we have to have her up there,
this perfect kind of femme.”
And I would go home lonely,
forgetting how to cry,
thinking “why was it so easy,
to paint her ‘cross the sky?
“My memory won’t falter,
my brushes they will keep,
I’ll go to bed so silent,
and paint her in my sleep.”
