They thought he died in twenty-seven;
He disappeared but never to heaven.
Now he paints demented lost souls;
He sold his soul to a witch’s coven.
His paintings are wild, uncanny to behold.
 
Pickman ties a soul to every painting;
Most who have seen them can’t help fainting.
The pictures contain pure unadulterated evil;
His portraits are something worth debating.
Most of his work is really unbelievable;
The choice of his subjects is inconceivable.
 
No, he did not die; he just found a place to hide;
A century later, his time he still bides.
His new home gives him plenty to do;
Painting portraits of dregs lost in the tides.
It’s easy to see why evil loves him so;
It will be a while yet before evil lets him go.
 
Just like the denizens in that old Eagles tune,
Checking out is easy, but leaving is untrue.
As old Pickman keeps them waiting,
Time passes slowly here like living on the moon.
The parties are blowouts; they’re so invigorating.
But soon everyone tires and they become so boring.
 
Everyone awaits the time when checking out is due;
Some last longer, some less and some folks never do.
They fight only with themselves as their sanity is lost;
They’re here to avoid the world outside and the one inside, too.
In here they find a break from the trivial things like trust,
But go they will, eventually, while giving in to every lust.
 
So Pickman’s models are for portraits of the damned;
Once they enter here, by demons they are scammed.
Now he has a rogue’s gallery of pictures that are never seen;
Into a cryptic cellar so many portraits are crammed.
It’s likely that they will only be seen by those they demean
And are never to be displayed in sunlight on the green.