Where are you, Vincent?

If Van Gogh were alive today,
He wold sell socks on the pavement.
We would steal his paints and replace them with a begging bowl.
We would take his brushes,
And replace them with books.
Books of science and mathematics and instructions ,
On how to be a contributing member of society.
And then we'd say' Paint us something, you're the painter man!
Do your job anyway?'
'Not in wavy colours! Paint in black and grey !'
He'd run away with his oranges too a far off field,
And we'd laugh into his hazy eyes, as he'd scream colour from his veins.
We'd pelt his eyes with stones on starry nights.
We'd burn gardens of his almond blossoms.
We'd make sure he never touched canvas with colour.
He would beg on the streets for kind words and for food.
And we would spit in his bowl (which we gave him) and his art books.
We would never buy the socks he sold,
Or the dreams that died with him in blood cold.
If Van Gogh lived today,
He would still cut his ear,
And we wouldn't shed a damn tear.