One night only (for obvious reasons)
Before tracking snark, Carroll's man makes his mark
doing droll imitations, on stage,
of La Belle France art whizzes -- some Misters, some Mses.
His pageantry...? Thought all the rage.
For his Mary Cassatt, he lies bare dans a cot,
keeping poppets -- a pair -- near to hand.
This tableau vivant's best when one babe's at each breast.
Oui: he's one of “les trois ladies grand.” **
This tableau vivant's best when one babe's at each breast.
Oui: he's one of “les trois ladies grand.” **
* For line three, some mss substitute "With a
tot on each tit his routine proves a hit."
** The other two being, according to journalist
Gustave Geffroy, Berthe Morisot (for whom see below)
and Marie Bracquemond.
As he channels Cezanne, stuff he's drawn (notes one fan)
mirrors cylinders, spheroids 'n' cones.
Jabbing brushes, he pokes, stabbing tabular strokes
splatt'ring multichromatical tones.
Aping B. Morisot dans manteau apropos,
he rehearses with nurse's simplicity.
Noticed drawing her bath, he incarnates her path --
the one fost'ring French fam'ly felicity.
He Degas does as well. Grabbing pad and pastel,
he gives chasse toward a classical dancer.
Finding sev'ral, he renders 'em -- heavy 'n' slender, them.
(Why...? The poor guy has no answer.)
Those who've seen his Monet always "'Atta boy!" say
when très gay stacks of hay he's seen miming.
The success of his act he imputes to the fact
that he wields such intractable timing.
His finale's unique -- if, on balance, quite bleak.
Post this bit, very little remains.
Cocking Glock, he makes show, aping Vincent van Gogh,
to (conclusively) blow out his brains.
