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Beauty of the Old Masters
by Donna Flood

Half the money was on the table.
I want a Utrillo. Are you able?
There isn't an artist I can't copy,
Be his work smooth or choppy.
The confidence was there,
Understand no signature affair.
Just that. A copy, no more,
Final payment then, your store.
Days were close to the rent,
Frustration for this man spent.
Utrillo you feign,
Where does your style lean?
These lines are all wrong.
The church is too strong.
In desperate need,
To literature and read.
My eyes were held in awe,
Sheesh! Stomach gnaw.
This man of madness,
Now this is badness.
He was drunk?
Yes, as a skunk.
They locked him in room,
To work I assume.
So now my mind can see,
This alizarin crimson under thee,
Canvas painted over with mute
Peeking through so subtle,
No wonder this palette is a muddle.
Flowing with spilled oil,
Dashed here and there to foil.
Any knowledge of a pattern,
Whipped about rings of Saturn.
As if to apologize to covered alizarin,
Here and there a tiny bit for fun.
In a stupor he sat on the floor,
Now I know the lines and more.
Brush pushed up into color flow,
No wonder they softly go.
I can not tell this gentle lady,
Her  master was so shady.
She will ever love her Utrillo,
Behind couch and pillow.

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