Well, it’s not far ’cross surface not ice—
no roller rinks for me.
It’s a canvas stretched tight;
the skainting way ain’t like that of Kandinsky.
On the canvas, I do pirouettes, although clumsily,
gracelessly.

My palette, a basin in which I stand,
wheels ready to expend
the paint, not clinging tight
on surface where deployed tinges sometimes blend.
On the canvas, I do pirouettes, although clumsily,
Gracelessly.

Skainting gives me much pain,
especially posteriorly.
I’ll need cortisone streaming into me,
fast, epidurally.

Fantasy, it gets the best of me
when I’m skainting—
that is, till I remember the
case of dorsal infirmity.
I’m chastened quickly.

Skainting gives me much pain,
so this effort is pure lunacy;
I’ll need cortisone streaming into me,
Fast, epidurally.

At last, I return to sanity.
This ain’t activity
for me, I learn, despite a no-pain, no-gain
abstract proclivity.

Skainting gives me much pain,
so this effort is way behind me.
I believe that is a pun that I see. . .
laughs don’t erupt with glee.