rioting crowd in the east-village squire, crowds part in a brooding haze, and a dice rolls across the years, stumbling oh he painted himself a fool, luck hangs blasé
brush and crayon trace over lush ruin as etruscan love pierces this thin veil of civilisation, once coloured in imprisoned years of ambition
and irony is warm and it glows 'cause time is a conundrum, a fate, a paradox – and thoughts are irrelevant in this oak-veiled cage, for when the unimpressionist sings, dreams start to sway
in a vaulted room, basalt vases hold flowers, ****** bare of fruitful love by the unimpressionist, who holds pride and flattery high above
and outside the cage, the artist lifts his paintbrush oh he dreams all too aimlessly, alight with naïveté
and as he pulls down jewelled ashtrays and the night-sky of tangier, he takes another smoke, little artist doesn't paint for himself statued replicator of somebody else
"ignorance is always so selfless and so kind"
his words form an echo at the end of his time disapproval lingers in this great artful lie, he's been played sideways, been handled and pawned now the unimpressionist hangs trapped, feeble warned