We painted a picture to show to our friends...
The sort of picture that people can enjoy
But we left it somewhere by mistake
What happened was that we put it down for a moment
Then half-way through that moment
Someone said something important
And we left without it
When we went back, it had gone
No one knew where it went
We asked everybody, described it to them in detail
Let it be known that we'd give a modest reward for its return
Made threats, cursed, got drunk
And shouted about its beauty, the tragedy of its loss
All this, but to no avail
Years later, we were all dead
Still no-one let on about its whereabouts
It took centuries, whole centuries
Now, of course, anyone can see it
It's on exhibition in the main gallery of the capital city
The man who found it paid 2.50 for it and sold it to a dealer for 500
He was pleased to have made such a profit
The dealer sold it to the gallery for 5, 000
And now the gallery say that it's priceless
'What a painting!' say the critics 'What a painting!'
Long dead, our friends haunt the gallery
They listen to the hushed echoes of admiration
From critics and patrons and tourists
We tell our friends that it's the painting we did for them
They're happy that so many people appreciate it
And they wish they could see it for themselves
But the dead are blind to such inanimates
They see only each other and the living
They can do no more than watch people staring at an empty space
And wish that they could see where the painting was and what it looked like
We can't even remember ourselves what it was that we painted
But its beauty, oh, we remember that well
It was a beautiful painting