The Man Who Makes Portraits Bleed

By Adrian Fry

Artwork by Carole Humphreys.

Such a scream it will be, so funny at first,

They'll have sated their hunger and slaked their thirst,

So they'll turn to me, pure entertainment their need,

I'm the man who makes portraits bleed.

So we'll off up the stairs to some barely lit landing

Where a portrait of some ornery Lord will be standing,

I'll recite mumbo-jumbo, for such is the creed

Of the man who makes portraits bleed.

For a while nothing happens, well nothing much worse

Than the gals getting chilly, the gentlemen terse -

He must build up the tension if the thing's to succeed,

Must the man who makes portraits bleed.

But the face begins dripping, from the eyes soon as not,

A young buck scoffs 'That's paint!' or somesuch idle rot,

But the blood keeps on flowing and all soon concede

To the man who makes portraits bleed.

Once the blood comes in gouts I play in it, go wild.

Now the thing is no joke I can laugh like a child,

I look marvellous in crimson, but it's 'No encore, please!'

For the man who makes portraits bleed.