The Studio

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The paint drips and glistens

The horse hairs bristen

The clouds are soaring the sky

The trees do blow

Somewhere down below

And there seems to be

A smell of peonies


The light bulb makes flickers

The brushes bicker

Over who should be next in line

The kites do fly

Way up in the sky

And I seem to recall

A puffed-up cardinal


The easel stretches

The canvas yawns

The deer dance across the field

The figures do stare

Into wilderness fair

And the name appears 

Of a tired artist here

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