Mr Johnson goes down to the crossroad,
guitar case in hand, a midnight meeting
to set the price of the colours to load
his six string brush: a heart too brief beating.
And Vincent sits beneath the stars, drinking
whisky and singing his blue lonely song.
He sees the clouds dance with the moon, singing
arias of solitude inside the throng.
And in the graveyard the Lizard King stands
leaning against a headstone and tuning
a lyre made of sighs and pilgrims’ hands,
carving words from madness to make hearts ring.
There’s no line between poets and madmen,
life is sweeter with madness now and then.