Classic Poem

A Cubist painter, haggard, gaunt and stark,
Sat in his wretched garret. On his face
Dread hunger's trace had placed its tragic mark.
The room was bare and pitifully dark.
One chair was there, and that was all;
But on the wall a dazzling painting hung;
A splash of vivid green, as though he'd flung
A can of paint against the canvas screen.
Between the emerald spots a jagged line
Of purple ran in weird bizarre design,
And there a dash of crimson paint, and here
A yellow smear.

Trembling, broken, faint from lack of food,
The wretched painter cowered in his chair,
While facing him with rude offensive stare,
A crude, ill-mannered, red-faced person stood.
The sheriff; on his coat there gleamed a star,
And from his mouth there dangled a cigar.
“Well, bo,” he said in accents hoarse and gruff,
“Of course this stuff won't hardly bring enough
To pay the bills you owe for food and rent,
But still I guess I gotta take your junk.
That's why I'm sent.
Perhaps some boob'll pay for that there bunk.”
He pointed to the painting on the wall
And gave a sneering laugh, as though to say:
“That stuff's a joke. What is it anyway?”

The artist gave a cry, and from his chair
He sprang, and with a poignant pleading look
Cried: “Please don't take that picture from its hook!
Arrest me if you will, or take my life,
But spare that portrait of my sainted wife.
Ah me, 'twas seven years ago last June”
(The sheriff sadly brushed away a tear)
“I painted her; 'twas on our honeymoon.
Alas, she's dead, and I'm left grieving here,
And all that can recall her radiant face,
Her winsomeness, her sweetness, and her grace,
The way she looked that golden summer's day—
This picture, Mr. Sheriff, 's all that's left
To me bereft.”

The sheriff took his derby from his head
And stood in reverent silence. Then he broke
The solemn quiet of the room and spoke.
“You've touched this rough old heart, young man,” he said.
“I ain't just what you'd call a millionaire,
But here's a coupla hundred I can spare.
Take 'em and pay your bills. Don't be afraid.
The judgment's paid.”

And then, from out the ever deepening gloom,
Softly the sheriff tiptoed to the hall;
While all alone the artist in the room,
Amid the haunting mem'ries of the room,
Gazed at the picture hanging on the wall.