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Slapp Happy - Michelangelo Lyrics

  • 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.

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