I'VE grown a goitre by dwelling in this den - <br />As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy, <br />Or in what other land they hap to be - <br />Which drives the belly close beneath the chin: <br /> <br />My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in <br />Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly <br />Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery <br />Bedews my face from brush-drips, thick and thin. <br /> <br />My loins into my paunch like levers grind: <br />My buttock like a crupper bears my weight; <br />My feet unguided wander to and fro; <br /> <br />In front my skin grows loose and long; behind, <br />By bending it becomes more taut and strait; <br />Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow: <br />Whence false and quaint, I know, <br />Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye; <br />For ill can aim the gun that bends awry. <br />Come then, Giovanni, try <br />To succour my dead pictures and my fame; <br />Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.<br /><br />Michelangelo Buonarroti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-painting-of-the-sistine-chapel/
