An artist takes her canvas out
It’s cheap and small and thin
Her model’s unspectacular
But to her even the spectacular is ordinary
This girl has seen it all.

The artist lifts her paint brush
And chooses from her palette
An intimate violet?
A violent red?
In the end she’ll be covered in both colors.

This will be the last one
But she says that every time.
This will be her masterpiece
But she says that every time.

She’s only doing this for a dollar
She just needs to get through school
She’s only painting to survive
But she’s barely surviving at all.

Her final stroke brings it all together
But the model’s left unsatisfied
On the canvas, all he sees is a wasted body
Tangled in the sheets
So he leaves
And the artist cries

It was not the last one
But she knew it wouldn’t be.
It was not her masterpiece
But she knew it wouldn’t be.