Portraits of Pasta
Portraits of Paradise, as skies of the 16th Chapel, hold ever so plastered. And so do burning flames of wriggly pasta, both of which must be the handiwork of an artistic Master.
The Vatican is rigged in pasta, crept in from Michelangelo's stove. His attention was fiddled by the stroke of his brush, that he forgot on fire, mishandled rolled dough. The palette was inclined, and the brush was smeared, while pasta crept and climbed, the Pope's bushy beared.
Thousand feet from a cage that only locks, Repunzel drops her pasta, Strange Goldilocks. Her coercion is Hair Cohesion, to princes climbing for matrimonial talks. But Swiss Guards lean, to purge this Garden, of Michelangelo's Pasta and Repunzel's Rasta. The cut that's first, cripples rebellions faster.
Michelangelo must now sit and fathom, how Paintings he plastered and Pasta he formed, in God's Holy Chapel and by one single accord, struck, down the line, generational chords. But is it not to be, that whilst eyes view to feel artistic mem'ries, mouths chew to fill acidic bellies?
As long as Michelangelo's Pasta roams Rome, to fill stomachs gazing on artistic skies, sleeping dogs may never lie.
And as long as Repunzel's Rasta hangs ever long, whereon Princes clutch silky goldilocks, barking dogs may never sleep.
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Multiple meanings in each and every line, and your deductions are as ideal as mine.