It seems like years ago you said that art is
Emptiness unless it comes from where the heart is,
When you had no time for pathos or catharsis.
With just one sweeping word you could dismiss
Suffering which never belonged to the artist.
And now you live somewhere in the south of France,
And you're famous for painting that passionate dance,
And your bitter portrayal of thorned crown and lance,
When you should be depicting nonchalance
And sweet wine, and sunshine, and tous ce que tu sent.
I'm writing to tell you your time should be spent
Singing your favourite hymn as an upbeat lament
Or acquiring habits to give up for Lent,
Not thinking up ways for you to present
Yourself to those people you used to resent.