Born in rich, deep India,
The home of spice and curry;
Where we found the blessed tea,
Where everyone must hurry.
Your mind it soars across the waves,
On sturdy canvas sails,
To where he was trained to fight a war,
And later mirth prevailed.
On hot days I would think of him,
His words, his muse, his way,
In that courtyard of the Louvre,
Where gentle winds blow every day.
To achieve a faction of his works,
Would truly humble me.
The surreal nonsense of his work,
His lasting legacy.
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