after Botticelli's Primavera

"Yer weirin yon glekit luik," quo ma pal.
"Like ye've won the pools. Lettin yer thochts hing oot.
Face rearranged like a Braque.
This is the granite city. Stiff upper lip, an that."

Weel I cudna, cud I? Wi an Oscar Kokoschka clout,
I'd faaen fur a real El Greco, lang legged, wi a Spanish pout.
An I felt like Venus, risin ooto the North Sea....
Cauld, an green, an obvious as hell.

Ma Rodin wis spukken fur. It's tirin, staunin on a shell.
Speecially yersel.
Splish, splash, splosh.
I left, wi Heironymous Bosch