When the painter first entered the room
He’d noted the walls drab and bare.
It appeared an unpromising canvas
and he had little time left to spare.
So forgive if he audibly sighed
as he spread out his drop cloths and paint.
His knees ache when he climbs on his ladder;
His swearing would trouble a Saint.
Still he made the best use of the light.
Sure his efforts would please and surprise;
The ceiling made a virginal white
And the walls the same green as her eyes.
It was dusk as he finished his task
and gathered his brushes and cans.
He’d have loved to see her reaction
when she’d witness the work of his hands.