Amidst the canyons of cement
I, with my board and spray-paint saw
Amidst the half-pipes, sad and gray,
A never-before-dreamt-of flaw.
For who would want to ride downhill
While listening to bands like “thrust” and “taint”
If there were no large bubble letters
Or titties drawn in low-cost paint?
And so I shook my can of blue.
My conscience whispered “make some art.”
And on the hill, for all to see,
In indigo I spelled out “fart.”
Inwardly proud I swallowed a sob
Then went back to congress to do my job.
The Daily Travesty 