In Lava Lane were artists Who swung the chalk with glee. The pool proclaimed with circle, The down-stroke was the tree. On canvas of the caverns With fundamental mirth They outlawed Eva's girdle, Drew Adam as at birth. No background jammed a vision, No border awed a soul, They overran the pushpins To draw the fishing pole. They posed the lava bubbles, The baby's unborn tooth, Diameters were goaded Until the chalk was truth. The tints of wild contentment Were ever in their sighs, They fled not from the orgies When mothers shut their eyes. Those galleries no longer Connive against the blue, An angel mined the dugouts Because they were too true. And yet some sultry morning May show where art still bides -- An urchin at a billboard And chalking up both sides. |