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THE STREET ARTIST
The tan sand in a breaking wave, the curl of creamy foam,
The glimmer of wet beaches and the moonshine on the reeds,
A swaying of green seaweeds where Pacific breakers comb,
Or the long, slow, sunlit reaches where the lonely heron feeds.
The glimmer of wet beaches and the moonshine on the reeds,
A swaying of green seaweeds where Pacific breakers comb,
Or the long, slow, sunlit reaches where the lonely heron feeds.
His sunsets were like beefsteak when it's badly underdone;
In his penance sheets of moonlight warm Romance when staggering, faint:
There was war and there was rapine in the carnage of his sun,
So I turned and gave him sixpence for the things he couldn't paint!
In his penance sheets of moonlight warm Romance when staggering, faint:
There was war and there was rapine in the carnage of his sun,
So I turned and gave him sixpence for the things he couldn't paint!
