Creativity And Madness Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Louis Wain had his paw bent on painting.
And drawing the most wonderful things.
He had an eye for the mischievous and fun.
He liked one Persian cat for its distinctive blue eyes.
And a tabby for its coat of Bengal orange fur
He'd paint cats, play cricket or shoot a 12-bore gun.
There's no surprise we all concur.
The man found fame but had to economise.
Because he was never a man of business, not at all.
He was a misfit hairball, a canvas without a coverall.
And tragedy became a pivotal force.
The loss of his dear wife, of course
It was never to leave him, a catastrophe
And heartbreak was the cornerstone
Of his dear poor life, it led him into poverty,
And later on, insanity sent him to the cattery,
No, not the cattery, the pauper's asylum.
Because financially, he was ruined.
But the public's affection saved him,
They raised the money to send him to Bethlem.
Where he painted mirrors at Christmas time
And learnt to love, again, the eccentricity
The creativity, the frivolity of his passion and art.