Classic Poem

They let you paint them—this little King Carlos,
and this fussy little self-satisfied
Maria Luisa, his queen.
Smiling and proud of themselves,
with all their thirteen children around them,
They let you paint them,
Bolshevist!

You painted also freemen being shot down,
and common people dancing,
And wide-flounced ladies of the court,
and girls with nothing on.
And you painted your father-in-law, Bayen,
with bitter mouth and eyes
because you could paint better than he.

And your helter-skelter world of murdered freemen
and fussy little kings
Puzzled you, knotted your brows.
You painted it, not knowing what else to do.