Scattered thoughts and painterly strokes,
painting from memory, but memory forgets.
That one field of green and yellow, where the sunflowers would grow,
Painting each stroke of when the summer sun illy sets.

Coveting the masterpiece.

And with such rush that the artist would paint,
Oh he twirled his brush, and his mind would flutter.
Haste be thy name,
And impulsitivity is thou's lover.

Refined by the fumes of Egocentricity.

The artist smiles at his own image,
The artist so narrsistic.
The artist who finds comedy in the pain of the public,
Oh the artist, one who is quite sadistic.