With Peach undertones
Flesh on the bones
Renoir's dream manifested
Her valleys and hills spread wide
The artist lifts his tool
To capture his Venus bare
Though an errand of a fool
With too much time to spare
Better to draw her
With the saliva of tongues
And the sound of her purr
When air escapes her lungs
Draw her in darkness or with blinded eye
And blend the oils o'er her skin
She does not inspire art -- but why?
Because she is art within
Let her tears be what you wet
Your paintbrushes in, and forget
your brow full of passion blood and sweat
Instead enjoy your last duet . . .
As to the real artist? It is she--
The greatest of all coquettes.