Paint, paint, paint – globby blobs of paint!
They’re wet and sticky, dry they ain’t!
They’re on my hands, my legs, my feet –
How can paint be so indiscreet?
Paint gone awry, flipped to the sky –
It even covers a poor fly.
I just got smart; I’ll slow the pace.
This isn’t some fast-paced paint race!
I brush the walls with paint so smooth;
Paint fills each crack, each little groove.
But still I am a blobby mess.
I must be messy – I confess.
A painter is what I AM NOT:
Meticulous with brush and pot!
I simply do not have the skill
To brush on paint without a spill.
The End
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