Hemmed in by bricks,
invisible, unyielding, but which would
deflect no hard-kicked ball,
nor magnify the mural-artist’s call,
he couldn’t say “I’m desperate
with no way out at all”;
he couldn’t ponder Sigmund Freud
on the crumbling cuss-flecked wall:
so there he sprayed
“F*** OFF” in a bold acrylic scrawl.
And the councillor in procession
with his deeds, tight-bound in thrall,
having his mind rudely snatched from
his conquests at Town Hall
considered the product of a heathen
with a mind squashed
very small.