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Brad Pitt's Body
Please give me a man, well shaped like Brad Pitt,
I've a chair in my room that I know he will fit,
He'll have Hugh Grant's eyes and Mel Gibson's smile,
The chin of Banderas, Sean Connery's style,
And the glorious body of young Brad Pitt,
I'm repeating it; I know I've done that bit.
He'll be there when I come home with the shopping,
He'll be there- beautiful, amazing, heart-stopping.
All locked in the picture and framed he will stay
And never watch telly for Match of the Day.
He won't mess up the kitchen, mix forks with the spoons
Want midnight jam butties or caviar at noon,
Say, "I'll have just a little", then expect more,
Or leave smelly socks spread over the floor.
Unmoving, illuminated against negative space,
Brad- and me with canvas in place.
I'll paint him standing in blue on sundays,
Colour him cadmium, sitting, on Mondays;
On Fridays and high days I'll highlight him rose
And silver and gold from his head to his toes.
The galleries will turn their nudes to the wall;
Yes - Rubins, Picasso, Millet and Chagall.
My work will be hung in the Louvre and the Tate;
Brad Pitt will be hung in the wardrobe to wait.
I'll be feted and greeted with great acclaim,
But I will grow older while Brad stays the same.
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