(Goya, an old man in exile, looks at his self-portrait)
A bulls neck, still much needed,
Deserving exile or the guillotine,
Because you are an artist we forgave you,
Thus his royal highness gave thanks,
My fingers itching for brush and canvas,
Floury cheeks and rouge, legs a donkey would be ashamed of,
A wife whos been to bed with everything in Madrid.
First I was untalented, then mad and deaf
Still I painted, my pain drew me on,
My kingdom had majas nude or veiled
Always with dark eyes like her
Whom I loved and they poisoned,
Duchess of Alba, dressed in silver grey,
A white pekinese at her feet with the world:
On the sand my name with hers
And always.
Old men easily grow afraid;
Spain and her blood are distant.
Alba dead I paint my Milkmaid of Bordeaux
In lingering silver-grey.
