"Hey, I got to tell you, about a man named GOGH. He's a real funny fellow,
he lets his feelings show. He did the best he could in the South of France
(using Raspberry Red, Lemon Yellow, and Orange Orange in a trance).

The dude thinks in Living Color, and he paints all day. Ain't got time
for the girls, they don't dig his crazy ways. And his attitude is awesome,
it fills the sky, but he can't sell a picture, because it makes people cry.

He's a fright, but he's right, and lest we forget it, though he's shot, now
he's hot, worth a lot, (too-bad-he-can't-swing-with-it). And his mood's not
crude, he's got some kind of secret. If I could lift it then I'd gift it to
all the squares in the Senate.

What does he want, the one-eared brother? Is it a penthouse, or my wallet,
or is it something other? I don't know, he's a cipher, and I'm in despair,
'cause he's in stir, getting cured, so he can act like all the others.
He knew he'd break through and then we'd come to know, that he done what he
done for the traveling show. He's left behind, so unkind, but that's the
gig as we all know it: You write your tunes in June before the snow starts
to blowing.

The poor, oppressed, the trashed, he loved them all. He stayed with them,
made them glisten, showed they weren't so small. They couldn't know it,
they were sowers, workers, farmers, maids - but they lived in his heart to
his dying day. Now they're up on the wall, his brush never lies. He's
saying don't just see through them, look them in the eyes.

That was his plan, poor man. And sure, he was sad, but so glad to have a
chance, to put down to the rest, all his notions of the best he could
express. He wrote it thick, he wrote it hot, he ate the colors in his pot,
and we love him for what he was, not for what he was not.

His boss, jacked-up paintings are what he left us, when he booked the
shuttle in a hurry to the nearest Alpha Centauri. I'll
seven-come-eleven-you he's grooving there still, letting all those star
children know, that you just can't stop the bro we know as GOGH."

Copyright © 1998 John Sheridan