Rembrandt
has a pauper’s grave,
The museum tourbook read,
A reminder that my life’s appraised,
By
others when I’m dead.
How
could he lie in such a pit?
My
confusion here I’ll confess,
Master
of both brush and light,
Off
canvas so distressed.
How real he draws the prodigal,
Feel
the beggar’s plight,
Oh
might your heart be so gripped,
With
the words that I would write.
His paintings are in the Rijksmuseum
Some
are in the Hague,
Bankrupt
of wives, children and home,
Possessing only the plague.
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