Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble,
ancient footprints are everywhere.
You could almost think that you’re seeing double,
On the cold, dark night on the Spanish Stairs.
Gotta hurry on back to my hotel room,
Where I got me a date with Botticelli’s niece.
She promised she’d be there with me,
When I paint my masterpiece
Every Sunday morning he would position himself on the green opposite Wargrave Church and adopt the pose of a classic painter working on his masterpiece. As the congregation emerged feeling suitably benevolent, ladies of a certain age would make a beeline for this creative old rogue; he seemed to be doing a roaring trade: