There he was,

A brush in hand, 

A palette in the other,

A vision in sight,

And I, his muse,

Moving I mustn't be, 

Still, I must be,

For my beauty was

undoubtedly of a 

degraded Mona Lisa,

For my skin, was that

of a lesser Aphrodite,

And a mind, surely,

of a woman-

Mustn't worry,

men learn once

cows fly.