This is the Day of Judgement,
The shedding of
Artist-gore
The Hour of
Execution.
Within the
Gallery door,
The Judges are
passing judgement,
While I, in the
blue-gum tree,
Am peering thru
the transom
To hear what I
can ÒseeÓ.
Look! Now theyÕre unwrapping my picture
The wonderful
work of my brain,
And wrong-side
up on the easel
It razzles and
dazzles in vain.
ÒWhat is it?Ó
asks one of the judges.
ÒWhat is it?Ó
querries all of the three.
ÒAnimal?
Vegetable? Mineral?
What is it
intended to be?Ó
ÒI have it,Ó
cries one, ÒItÕs a camel,
Or a cow, in a
meadow of green,
Chewing the cud
of contentment,
While lo, in her
eyes serene
ÒThat far-away
look of conjecture,
That langÕrous
look of surprise,
Those white
foamy tears of resentment
Flooding her
dear old eyes.
ÒYes, camel or
cow or cow-camel,
Whichever
intended to be,
ItÕs surely the
work of some genius
As anyone can
plainly see.Ó
So upside down
they hang it,
While I, in the
blue-gum, rave,
Hurt sore by
their awkward treatment
Of my first
ÒLaguna Wave.Ó