For years, I watched enviously,
The contented way to be:
Not a painter, but a gentleman –
Of a life I could only dream.
To morning coats and top hats,
Duly parading the square,
Boasting wealth, so grand,
And escorting ladies, fair.
Yet, there was one in particular,
Who stole the air,
The Count Dominique.
Whose red coattails flared,
So unique –
Oh, how I wished his life to be mine!
Every week, I painted him afar,
A red pillar beneath the sky,
And amidst the fruits of the market,
One would never suspect his guise,
Dressed in a royalty of scarlet,
How could it ever have been his eyes?
Well, one day, he came to my stall,
And held my paintings high,
Twisting them about the sunlight,
His eyelids squinting tight –
I sat nervously as he cried,
“If only I could see the beauty that be,
my wears, you paint, are lost on me.
To be blind of colour is a life most bare,
and one I would gladly trade to sit your chair.”
