On My Strange New Color Vision Problem

My vision’s changed, I’m seeing red.
The doctors don’t know why.
Why do you think, I paint clouds of pink,
Against a violet sky.

You’ve never seen a pink cow.
You say there cannot be one.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’m surely going to see one.

Show me a cobalt blue cow.
If one you can ever find.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’ll paint a mauve bovine.

So far, with apologies to Gellet Burgess:

Greens are gray and grays are red.
Blue is purple instead.
I see the world anew, when looking through
A  glaze of cadmium red.

Picasso had his blue and green phase,
Mine will be purple and red.
I’ll warmly paint abstracts these days
Seeing red,  until I’m  dead.

It’s not a curse, it could be worse.
I could see sienna or umber instead.
My paintings, I admit, would then look like shit.
Soooooo…
Tho I have no choice, I’m not adverse
To painting the the town in red.

If we see normal MRIs, of the brain behind the eyes.
Several opthamologists said.
Your chronic crimson visual haze,
Will evoke the cowardly cold war phrase
“Better red than dead”.

Continuing, with apologies to Omar Khayyam:

To see the veins in the retina, an injected dye is the mode.
It causes the red pee you see, when at your abode.
This can be quaint if used to paint a watercolor.
And given the lovely title, “ Sunset in the Commode.”

(on painting with peg usner one day)

Painting at a marina,  the weather is very hot.
Why plein aire “en rouge,” the doctors don’t know squat.
lf Omar Khayyam was here, he’d see
I’ve evoked an old joke to paint a genuine ruby yacht.

Feathers of pink, I think, look great on flamingos.
And red is fine on Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose.
But can you wink, at an egret of pink
in a swamp of lilac and madder rose?

A model in ante bellum garb, a house that could be Tara.
An artist’s set up, not the get up for a Verdi opera.
Rose-tinted sight, no sweat, unlike  Rhett, I frankly do give a damn.
So I’ll paint for you in colors true, a realistic Scarlett O’Hara.