I hired him for my gallery
	To recreate the "Greats",
For reproductions, painted well,
	Were getting hefty rates.

He started in with fervor,
	My client list to fill,
And copied all the Masters
	With awe inspiring skill.

His "Blue Boy" face was perfect;
	"Mona Lisa" smiled just right.
An appropriate neurosis
	Was in Van Gough's "Starry Night".

His works were met with wonder,
	(And my business flourished, too!)
So, I upped the monthly quota
	Of his paintings that were due.

And, though I liked his painting,
	The thought occurred to me,
That my critique of what he did
	Would better make him be.

So, after that I pestered him
	With ways he could improve.
He took it well at first, but then
	I saw a change in mood.

Until, one day, I said to him,
	As gentle as could be,
His colors on Picassos
	Seemed a little bold to me.

He stared at me, and shook his head,
	And said he'd had enough.
He put away his easel then,
	And handed me his brush.

"Paint your bloody pictures, sir,
	The way that you see fit,
But bother me no more," said he,
	"Effective now ... I quit!"

He's working for my rival now,
	A man who's dim and slow,
But business there, they say, is brisk, 
	A fact that pains me so.

The world is full of critics,
	But real artists number few,
And I've not found another who
	Could do what he could do.

So, while I scout for talent,
	To say I've learned is fair.
While plentiful are we who judge,
	Performers are quite rare.