I was eight years in painting at Milan     

       A fresco for the monks of Dominic—     

       And even this I hear's begun to fade;     

       It was a picture of that sacred feast     

       Our Saviour gave before he went to die.     

       Ten years I laboured on the Sforza horse     

       Which should have been my monument through     

       Time.     

       I built it huge and true in every line,     

       Studied anatomy to make it strong,     

       And set on top Francesco with his sword;     

       But, when the time for casting had arrived     

       And I had done one perfect work at last,     

       The hungry French across the border came,     

       Bringing their Gascons, who got drunk and shot     

       The clay of my poor Titan into space.     

  

       So were ten years of strenuous effort lost;     

       And now I'm painting Mona Lisa's face . . .     

  

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