Meeting Van Gogh. Edited

Meeting Van Gogh The wheat field is blond as a German milkmaid. Intense heat, in the shade of an olive tree I saw a grumpy Van Gogh is glaring at me for appearing in his painting. My scooter is electric blue and doesn't fit in. Easy now, my painter, pretend it is a mule. The vine, deep green or dark cerulean soon bottles of liquid pleasure. The road in your landscape is like a mamba sneaking its way, killing rabbits blue. The afternoon sun is fierce, sweat in my eyes I fall among thistles, and Van Gogh smiles.