Well done
With canvas clutched he comes
To hear the coveted well-done son
The little Vincent of starry eye
Swirling on the primary oils
With hours long the artist toils
From the studio he runs
To hear a father say
Well done son
But the words never come
And so the artist caps the tubes
No longer to a father runs
Who never found time to say
Well done son
Take time to tell someone
Well done
You may be the only one.
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