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.