Picasso's little cube

Pablo Picasso died on the field of battle,
a bottle of Spanish wine in his hand;
he went laughing his head off:
a bull on a long one nights' stand.

he once painted the Paris canvas,
made a clown inside a monkey's head.
his party rate was as high as a cloud:
he said Monet was dead.

while up in the main saloon,
he took a running jump.
his friends watched from a mountain top:
Pablo said it was a dump.

Olga was his aristocrat;
a Russian princess of the stage.
he rehearsed love with forty women:
but kept her in a cage.

when he inhaled he sketched two breasts,
fine lines drawn firm and dark:
he confidently transformed
his little cubes into art.

the last one standing before he sat,
waves washing over his blue wall.
his Spanish heart had a vision:
describe what he imagined he saw.

abstractly dancing on Mediterranean sand
or in bed with a girlfriend on top,
caressing life was what he loved:
he said he'd never stop.