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You fancy yourself Caravaggio with your paintbrush and your cape,
Your virtuosic gait - this is your greatest trait.
The Cardinal bathes your feet with gold which he drew from the lake,
Where many men have met their fate.

You once told me everyone has a truth they must fake,
Like telling fortunes when your very life's at stake.

(I suppose) I'll call you Caravaggio for the duration of this song,
This won't take long. You have a funny way of looking at the clock,
Expecting the end.
The models you've chained to the frame haven't eaten for days,
This is for what they are paid (you say).

They point to the sky and say that isn't right.

He awoke no longer Caravaggio - this was only the world he made.
The work for which was paid.