I saw a blind man once, who had but read a book of pictures.

He saw beautiful mountains,

Statues and fountains

He saw angels

He saw mermaids

He saw beer-guzzling barmaids.

And when one asked about the Blind man

You would find he never once tried to lie

Never fib

Never gyp

Feeding sparingly from the trash can

Only love and hope like a magpie

He told the world about the book he read

It's colours of victory

Of the writer's mastery

Of the angels, the mermaids, the fountains and mountains.

And had six thousand and one, applauding his lovely visions.

The author who had written the book of pictures

Heard 'bout the beautiful Mountains,

Statues and Fountains

Laughed about the blind man's angels

And scoffed at the beer guzzling damsels

He put his hand to his head and said

"It is but a book of war and evil

Of corpses and men skinned over by the devil

Victory sure

but of treachery

and mastery of gory sorcery.

My dear man, it is good to imagine

But why would you drink wine for gin?"

I saw a blind man once, who had but read a book of pictures.

Why didn't he just

Placed his trust

And let his little girl read

And explain with description

The book of the painter,

The book about slaughter.

The book about slaughter.

Then I wouldn't have ever seen,

A blind man once, who had but read a book of pictures.