Lying back to paint upon the ceiling ...
No, he never uses black -
just the colours of his feelings.
He delineates saints on sepia ground,
His temper like his paints is albumen bound.

Work & toil, well he ain't no dilettante,
he conceives in oil & vatican chianti.

The rumour's out, his hobby is dissection,
& there ain't no doubt he knows the body to perfection.

Fourteen lines, that's what makes a sonnet
& it even rhymes - Buonarroti's working on it.

Through the streets, sticken by the urchins,
Wrapped in sheets, round the town he's lurching.
Lurching to the church, heavy with a vision,
Continuing his search though they come with their derision.

All his works, you just gotta see 'em -
Ask the clerks at your neighborhood museum.

Pope's on the phone, calling Buonarroti
But he's not home, he's gone a little potty.

He's off again, waving paints & brushes -
Round the bend, to wind up in the rushes.

Lyrics submitted by stickista

Michelangelo song meanings
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