Sleeping rough on canvas

The painting was commissioned
at Bethnal Green
without my consent.
On a tiled wall,
in my own excrement,
I hand-grouted a tube station masterpiece.

Some would say,
In these times he did his finest work.
My critics
called me a dirty bastard
and showered me cold
with a fire hose.

At least I was warm,
bunked in a steel farmhouse,
belly full of bread and cheese,
nervous about the new colours,
biting the bristles of my brush.