Perched on a tiny wooden chair, A paint tube sighed, “Life’s just not fair…” “Squeezed and twisted day by day, They drain my soul and toss me away!” Black as his mood, a worn-out shade, Dreaming of galleries, not being flayed. But the artist, ruthless, without a plea, Kept pressing him dry relentlessly. So in a dramatic, final pssshhht, He made his move—one last gift. A splatter burst on the canvas bright, “My masterpiece!” he cried with delight. Moral (since every tale needs one): Even when you’re done… you can still stun.