The Poet and the Wall

The Poet faced the Wall;

Holding the spray can aloft,

He wrote:

Upon a surface

Words were put:

‘The hand of man

Is not afoot’

And long they stood

For all to see;

And longest of them

All was me.

Which is not to say

That the poet wasn’t any good;

He wasn’t;

But, what is a forest

Without any wood?

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