Portrait of the Artist
I never lived, I have no history, I deserted no wife to take another, I rotted in a room and leave – this message. The morning newspapers and the radio Announced his death in a few horrid words: – A man of talent who lacked the little more That makes the difference Between success and failure. The biographer turned away disgusted from A theme that had no plot And wrote instead the life of Reilly. Great artist, came to town at twenty-one, Took a job, Threw it up, Lived a year with Mrs Brown. Wrote a play, Got the pox, Made a film, Wrote the incidental music. Left his Mrs. Took another, Lived in Paris With a mummer. His critics were Denounced as monsters, Jungle beasts Who hated Art. Great artist, great man, the pattern was perfect And the biographer recorded it with enthusiasm.