Picasso's in the kitchen stirring up a stew
He pours himself a bowl and then he fixes me one too
And we sit out on the terrace
And the birds fly through the trees
And he captures them on canvas
And I capture them in dreams
And we pass a lazy afternoon, as happy as can be
With the brushes and the turpentine, just Picasso and me
He picked me up in Paris; I was scrounging in the streets
He shared his cream for coffee, and I curled up at his feet
And ever since that moment I've been his confidante
He says that it's uncanny how I know just what he wants
But we both like our freedom, and quiet company
In the end we're not so different, Picasso and me
Sometimes he gets angry when they say he's just a fraud
And he curses at the canvas, and he shakes his fist at god
Who are these rogues – who are these fools
Who made this game – who made these rules
The critics criticize him and the women come and go
They'll never understand him; they don't know what I know
They're just too damned demanding, they just won't let him be
And the lazy summer afternoons, the sunlight through the trees
And the brushes and the turpentine and Picasso and me
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