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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
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Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3105 reads)
As in Bordeaux I took the air


As in Bordeaux I took the air
    An ancient house I passed,
And someone told me it was there
    That Goya breathed his last.
Adrift from his beloved Spain,
    The splendour of his day,
In twilight penitence and pain
    He passed away.

In peasant hovel he was born,
    And to the bull-fing rose,
Killing with insolence and scorn
    His toros, I suppose.
With gutter drabs no stucco saint,
    By courtly dames adored,
His right-hand held a brush to paint,
    His left a sword.

See in the Prado in Madrid
    A picture on the wall;
Grotesques and satires Goya did,
    But this out-horrors all.
A naked girl a monster dread
    Is clutching chewing off her head
And blindly chewing off her head
    With bloody jaws.

In all the world there is, I swear,
    No picture more obscene;
One wonders in what dark despair
    The painter's mind had been.
What brain diseased could thus contrive? -
    Yet I forgive him for
In hellish horror, I believe,
    It symbols WAR.

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