He was late, though the set was ready weeks
before, and brought the women cherry nude
fondants and fondly pinched their pert young cheeks.
He preened his new suit in the interlude,
Oh, the praise he urged for his gold silk shirt!
His moustache erect and suitably crude.
The cats ran away, nibbled fleas and trod dirt
in the wet floor, drew blood when roughly dried
by assistants immune to price tag art.
Cameras whirred and bellies growled, hid by pride.
Dali grew bored and lured the assistant,
though round the corner Gala feigned to hide.
When asked her impression of that giant
the photographer paused with rheumy eyes
and framed a reply aptly elegant:
L’enfant terrible aimed to build a disguise
to cover a heap of nothing but lies.
© Jill London 2013