The Duke
The story has often been told. Of a painter with brushstrokes so bold.
Claw at the promise of a white canvas, remove black shadows leave a lifeless mass.
And the pain runs deep from desert sands, prestige restored if I could remould ancient hands.
The explosions dance in our moonlight, whilst vast explosions erode our delight.
Follow me my dear, I’d rather roar for a day than walk blind for a thousand years.
Walk with me my active mass of youth, compromise, quiet life, uncouth.
Walk with you my brother in searing heat, lead me on and the quagmire complete.
My straying son look what you made me do, I clipped the borrowed wings on which you flew.
Pure explosions dance in our moonlight, whilst vast explosions erode our delight.