Picasso's little cubes

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 often painted his Paris canvas,
made a clown inside a monkey's head:

his party rate was higher than a cloud.
he said Monet was dead!

while up in the main saloon,
he took a running jump.

his friends watched from their 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;
exhaled them both firm and dark.

he confidently brushed with a mix of paints,
his little cubes became a work of art.

the last one stood before he sat,
waves washed over his blue wall.

his Spanish heart had a vision
to describe what he imagined he saw.

abstractly dancing on Mediterranean sand,
or in bed with his latest girl on top,

caressing life was what he loved:
he said he'd never stop.