Shrugs his coat off at the door
Grabs his brushes, papers, paint
Sets them out upon the floor
Stares at the paper, clean and white
Licks his lips, then dabs with glee
The only colors he can find
A brownish red monotony
The paper, once so fresh and pure
Has now been sullied by his art
This ugly number is a fence
Though not so high, keeps us apart
7 boxes does he paint
With varying crimson hues
Till the last one, pure as snow
Chase away the number blues.
