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Picasso's in the kitchen stirring up a stew |
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He pours himself a bowl and then he fixes me one too |
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And we sit out on the terrace and the birds fly through the trees |
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And he captures them on canvas and I capture them in dreams |
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And we pass a lazy afternoon, as happy as can be |
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With the brushes and the turpentine, just Picasso and me |
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He picked me up in Paris; I was scrounging in the streets |
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He shared his cream for coffee, and I curled up at his feet |
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And ever since that moment I've been his confidante |
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He says that it's uncanny how I know just what he wants |
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But we both like our freedom, and quiet company |
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In the end we're not so different, Picasso and me |
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Sometimes he gets angry when they say he's just a fraud |
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And he curses at the canvas, and he shakes his fist at God |
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Who are these rogues - who are these fools? |
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Who made this game - who made these rules? |
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The critics criticize him and the women come and go |
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They'll never understand him; they don't know what I know |
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They're just too damned demanding, they just won't let him be |
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And I'm glad to see them go, and then it's back to him and me |
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And the lazy summer afternoons, the sunlight through the trees |
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And the brushes and the turpentine and Picasso and me |
