Lying back to paint upon the ceiling ...   No, he never uses black -   just the colours of his feelings.   He delineates saints on sepia ground,   His temper like his paints is albumen bound.      Work & toil, well he ain't no dilettante,   he conceives in oil & vatican chianti.      The rumour's out, his hobby is dissection,   & 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, sticken 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 & brushes -   Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes.