A goldsmith's son. A loner
Piero Di Cosimo refused to sweep his room
His garden grew wild. His household was a midden
His fruit trees went unpruned, his fig trees rioted
He imagined scenes from walls where the sick spat glut
Designed a chariot for death in a carnival
He boiled up 50 eggs, while cooking glue
And ate them as he stood in his clutter and painted
And why was this man a loner? It's known that he:
Hated crying children of either gender
Hated coughing men they made his shudder
Hated thunder it made him shake and cower
Hated the pealing of bells, the chanting of friars
Shadows annoyed him deeply, as did flies
Found dead at the foot of his stairs, after a storm
Painting aside, some folk are best unborn
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