Please, Mr. Rothko
With naked ambition my dreams were imbued
when I started my life as a tube of red paint.
For I’d hopes of becoming a buxom pink nude
with tempting red lips. But it’s clear that I ain’t!
I’m a square—and a square with no tonal variety;
a slab of plain color, no joy to the eye
though many now find me an object of piety
and worth a king’s ransom. God only knows why!
The would-be-nude houri inside me is shaking
with lust and is yearning to start an affair.
My ardor needs slaking. I’m yours for the taking
if only you’d see me as more than a square.