Once upon a time, there was a town,
Adjacent to the hillock, almost brown,
By the side of the winding river, Tara,
That watered, en route, fauna and flora.
The riches of the villagers around,
The hawkers lured their customers found,
The residents knew well their tricks,
But not the visitors came in trucks.
Deep inside a dead end lane,
There lived an artist of fame.
The bread, he earned, by hard work,
And little he knew, how to shirk.
The best of all the portraits, he drew,
Placed it just for public view.
Though, he knew well, all can’t be won,
He called for their fair opinion.
A placard, before the portrait, read,
That the worst part of it, better be said,
To make it, as they saw, worthy,
For him, to change it, where necessary.
A box, in front, he kept,
On its top, was there, a small slit,
For any critic, to drop a slip,
That could serve him well, as a tip.
A week thereafter, the box he opened,
To his surprise, countless slips, he found.
As each one passed a stricture,
The total went against his picture.
A foot note, right under the placard, said,
That the portrait went back to his shed,
For him, to retouch, as was told,
So as to dedicate it to their fold.
Untouched, it came back, right next week,
Wise, he became, this time to seek,
Again their views, of all its best part,
That perhaps was retouched, what they thought?
The slips, he took out, one by one,
Summed up, “FANTASTIC’, for the reason,
That he was deemed a selfless person,
As he cared more for public opinion!