I met Mr. Warhol the other day,
His eyes were tired; his hair, gone gray.
He took my hand as we walked along,
And I heard him hum a tuneless song.
I asked him how it felt to die,
He turned to meet me with a sigh.
He said it was whiplash and gasoline,
"It burns your nose and makes you sneeze."
I asked him if he missed his art,
He kissed my cheek and stopped my heart.
"Child, what I miss the most is life,
Living, loving, the thrill of lime-light.
But, throwing caution to the wind won't make you brave,
One day we'll all share a grave."
He held my hand and raised it high,
Then said, "Now dear, go paint the sky."
And that's when my alarm began to ring,
Awaking me from my Wonderland dreams.