The lonely man alone with his art,
Long forty-five years, prisoner in his head.
For most of it, he played the role of a drunk,
Until one night he drove, crashed and stopped dead.
Took with him a lady whose heart was not ready to stop,
Covered in blood, a lifetime of things left unsaid.
Conveniently we forget this fact,
How horribly Mr. Pollock went off the track.