Vincent and Paul

It’s fall of 1888, the south of France, In the verdant fields of Arles, Two artists shared a single dream, And so began their quarrel. Vincent paved the way for Paul With bold sunflower sprays. Paul dissembled, stating plain, “More practiced effort pays.” “Don't smile before December,” Said the mentor to his charge. And the student pegged his better As a bon vivant at large. So, their tenure at the Yellow House Grew troublesome and dark. Their artists’ shared collective Strayed a long way off its mark. Dry and cold, the Mistral winds Spread madness like a plague, To infiltrate poor Vincent’s mind, Whose memories grew vague. Mania, delirium, anxiety, and fear, Climaxed when the voices told him, “You don’t need that ear!” He’d heard no praise, regardless. Dr. Rey used his sorry portrait To fix his chicken coop. Then Theo got engaged, And Paul sailed away to Tahiti. Now time’s become history, And that paint smeared canvas, Nailed to a chicken coop Means to claim a hefty sum. And Le Fou Roux lies cold in his grave, Unmindful of the legend he’s become. THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR STARRY NIGHTS AT SAINT REMY