Will I ever pour my blood from botched and sloppy urns
Into refined and ornate pottery?
My complex-smelling potpourri,
The exhibitions left by those great artists of history.

Grandiose. That's what they call a sense of self-importance
When your **** don't measure up
We have different views, and whose is skewed?
Of my little stream of blood.

They found Bach dusty and dead
Some ink long dried of a brilliant head
Will I ever have anything to show for it,
Was I a master of craft?

Or does death make me daft?