The Graffiti Man

A thousand yard stare, fixed on a can,

To create or consume, that is the question-

For tonight the squat is cold

Comrades have knives in their eyes,

outside the terriers are prowling.

 

A thousand yard stare, fixed on a can-

Time to pick a battle, racists or architects?

Time to count out change for a chicken roll

Tonight the buses aren’t running.

 

A thousand yard stare, fixed on a can-

Possibly the last one in the world.

Concerned glances from the passing gentry,

The Graffiti Man has a plan.

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