He was most one-of-a-kind, as in “ear.”
With his absinthe-tinged yelling
And turpentine smelling, the paint he would smear. . .
Had a most one helluva time to hear.

He was hap-hapless in sales. . .none at all.
Now at ’hole auction meetings the bidders are bleating,
And prices don’t fall.
Now they’re hap-happening, sales. . .bidders brawl.

The impastos they’re toasting,
Of collections boasting:
“To my Gauguins, I’ll add one mo’!”
They’ve got merry Gogh stories,
And sales boost their glories. . .
Then to the whiskey à Gogh-go.

He was post-Monet and sliced off his ear,
With his brush bristles throwing
Thick pigment that’s showing
His hope and his fear,
He was post-Renoir and sliced off his ear.

The hardliners were roasting
His work; Theo hosting
Him when back to home he'd want ' go.
He would paint plein air quarries
And canal-borne dories;
The critics, cross, dubbed him "van Schmoe."

The works gross hundreds of millions each year.
His oeuvre’s stature is growing;
The art world was blowing
It out of its ear
When they were shunning this guy,
They were dolts, dunderhead guys—now that's clear.