Picasso would paint
Three pictures a day,
As prolific as me
With my poetry.
At three in the morning
He’d call for his brush
And then he would rush
Down to his easel
Where he would create,
Although it was late.
Like me with a pen
Which I call for, and then
I capture my verse
In the small hours.
When I have done
I go back to bed,
Take my life in my hands,
Reawaken my wife,
Read her my work
And then I drop off
To sleep again.