Intro:
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DmEmDmCGmBbDm
An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth
DmEmDmCGmBbDm
Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?
DmEmDmCGmBbDm
O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool, still, passionlessly it quivereth
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Minding not that my hands are more than apt, my Muse
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Where is hidden the blue-hued arch 'neath the High Heaven's rich Em blazonry
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The flowery meadow, Em brac'd by the horizon, snowflaked and aery mountains
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In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer
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Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore
(GBDCGBD)
DmFEb
O Canvas, wherefore canst thou these images not allow?
DmFEb
I de Em a projection of my Theatre they should be
DmFEb
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine
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What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to bes killfully painted?
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The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds
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Unadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood
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The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon
Dm
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
GmBbDm
"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth."
GmBbDm
O Canvas! wherefore?
GmBbDm
"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth."
GmBbDm
O Canvas! wherefore?