Delivering Beauty Into Captivity
The burning touch of a tax demand in my pocket,
Away from the radio at last, the cold night breeze in the street.
It feels bad to have to sell to my clients, once they have my art
It's gone for good, beauty is delivered into captivity.
The craft of sculpture runs contrary to the pulling power of money,
The spirit of imagination runs contrary to the poor taste of ignorant greed.
Waiting in my empty house are Chieko, some clay and shavings of wood.
The hot pie stuffed into my chest is still slightly warm... and crushed.