michelangelo phil In this hard toil I've such a goiter grown, Like cats that water drink in Lombardy, (Or wherever else the place may be) That chin and belly meet perforce in one. My beard doth point to heaven, my scalp its place Upon my shoulder finds; my chest, you'll say, A harpy's is, my paintbrush all day Doth drop a rich mosaic on my face. My loins have entered my paunch within, My nether end my balance doth supply, My feet unseen move to and fro in vain. In front to utmost length is streatched my skin And wrinkled up in folds behind, while I Am bent as bowmen bend a bow in Spain. No longer true or sane, The judgement now doth from the mind proceed, For 'tis ill shooting though a twisted reed. Then thou, my picture dead, Defend it, Giovan, and my honor-why? The place is wrong, and no painter am I. 050117 ... jane orange ninja turtle 070517 what's it to you? who go blather from