The Street Artiste
We see the illegible logo that he scribbles with insouciant flair,
"Duh, I'm me and I wuz here!" but why would anyone care?
Like a little boy playing Advertising, gathering make-believe market share,
he scribbles "I'm me and I wuz here!" as if anyone would care.
Perhaps he does it to meet the challenge of some idiot juvenile dare,
scrawling "I'm me and I wuz here!" as if anyone would care.
Under some imbecile's impulse to lay his empty soul bare,
he scribbles "I'm me and I wuz here!" hoping someone would care.
Some fools try to tell us that this is exquisite artistic fare,
this stupid "I'm me and I wuz here!" about which no one can really care.
But if that's true, then our street artiste should sit in a university chair
and teach "I'm me and I wuz here!" to those few who actually care.
In dismay at civilization's decline, at this mess we can only stare;
why would "I'm me and I wuz here!" ever make anyone care?
If they knew how he dishonors them, his parents would tear out their hair;
but his "Duh, I'm me and I wuz here!" shows that he just doesn't care.
The "works" of this moron Michaelangelo we hope would become extremely rare;
no more "I'm me and I wuz here!", when no one would really care.
For what he does upon our walls a dunce cap he should wear,
for scribbling "I'm me and I wuz here!" for people who just don't care.
He steals a load of spray paint and goes out on a tear,
scribbling "I'm me and I wuz here", desperate to make anyone care.
He fancies himself a commando, penetrating his enemies' lair
to scribble "I'm me and I wuz here" in the hope that his enemies will care.
He's really such a worthless nothing that he has a hideous nightmare,
that he scribbles "I'm me and I wuz here" and even the cops don't care.
The scribbler and the celebrity both make a perfect pair;
both say "I'm me and I wuz here", but give no reason for anyone to care.
He blatantly posts his logo out in the public square,
to declare "I'm me and I wuz here", but people are too busy to care.
He might as well be non-existent, like a picture drawn in the air.
He scrawls "I'm me and I wuz here", but just can't make anyone care.
He sulks and pouts in self-pity and cries that it's just not fair,
that he scribbles "I'm me and I wuz here" and nobody bothers to care.
We gaze in disgust and dismay at the paint drool emblazoned there,
at his "Duh, I'm me and I wuz here." But who could possibly care?
Desperate for some human attention, he finds a blank wall where
he can scribble "I'm me and I wuz here". Maybe someone will care.
I see his illegible smear on a wall and I certainly must declare
that his "Duh, I'm me and I wuz here" is nothing about which I care.
It spreads across a wall like the visual equivalent of a sour trumpet blare;
that "I'm me and I wuz here" that seeks desperately to make someone care.
If you try to stop him, his sissy-weak temper will flare
because his "I'm me and I wuz here" is supposed to make you care.
At the city crew that paints over his mess he can only stand and glare.
His "I'm me and I was here" vanishes because the city simply does not care.
He tries to appear spooky and dangerous to the people he wants to scare
with his "Duh, I'm me and I wuz here", but nobody's going to care.
The deadly sin of vanity is truly a moral snare.
Those who cry "I'm me and I wuz here" make it hard for others to care.
He's truly a soul-dead zombie with only one thought to share:
"Duh, I'm me and I wuz here." But how could anybody care?
It's not as though he has better things to do. He had plenty of time to spare
to scribble "I'm me and I wuz here" in the hope that someone will care.
"It is what it is," he says in an expression of existential despair
and then scribbles "I'm me and I wuz here" for anyone who might care.
At the sight of this scrawl upon his wall the owner must certainly swear
and erase "I'm me and I wuz here" because he just can't be bothered to care.
This nihilistic cult of celebrity has become too much to bear
with its endless "I'm me and I wuz here." People, I just don't care.
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