Hangin' Van Gogh,
out at the French Chateau,
palates all been dressed,
just to construct this mess,
burgundy red to Royal blue,
portray ruling societies true virtue,
hangin' Van Gogh.

Now you know this Van Gogh,
he felt kinda low,
brush strokes rigid, direct,
softening to near perfect,
his crimson's bled, society's bed,
his brush dipped in pain,
such excess, insane.
He saw beauty in all that waste,
high society not his taste,
hangin' Van Gogh.

The genesis of colourful blends,
his message to transcend,
to tell others he cared,
he could, because he dared,
nobody understood his cause,
of his purpose and who he was,
his overzealous painting technique,
his canvases so unique.
Starry, starry night awesome sight,
good as Canadian Northern Lights,
hangin' Van Gogh.

His universal success after his death,
he was impatient, he did not know,
his work inspired,
fellow artists, on fire,
to explore yesterdays desires.
Now Vince maybe gone,
but his spirit carries on,
with passion and dreams,
in psychedelic sheens,
on linen, his canvas life was spent,
his genius, evident,
we try to speculate,
and predicate,
the closets of his soul,
hangin' Van Gogh.