He cut his ear off, didn't want to listen.
His blood was filth, beat far too many times.
It makes good paint, for when your soul is jilted,
the heart must spill, stain canvas - if not people.
And bla-bla-bla, three times they called him wild,
and ha-ha-ha, three times he turned the cheek
away so he could never hear them howling.
'Bright colours in Provence' said he. Just rubbish.
Eventually, we all will stop believing
that people love us even though they do.
They lied, again, he tried, his heart beat half-fold.
Three times they cut, he bled, and thrice he painted
the final dum-da - breaking of the wave.
But that orgasmic last breath fails to save him.
