An associate liked taking pictures

            So he took and took

            Though he was never satisfied

            That what he reproduced

            Was close enough to what he shot

 

            He agonised over accessories

            And spent a fortune on a lens

            That interfered the least with what he saw

            But didn’t live up to its promises

 

            His lovers weren’t happy either –

            The more than few who,

            Flattered by the chance at first to sit,

            Became dismayed to find their portraits

            Showing more and more of much

            Yet nothing new

 

            What a pity, I reflected to myself,

            That such good judgment in the choice of girls

            Was never mirrored by his art