Banksy’s Game

The xylophone in the field of corn was just set down yesterday.
Crowds gathered on the road bank with their mobile phones
As if waiting for the scarecrow to play but his hands had been tied
And his thighs had left him like the cost of my honeymoon.

Eventually, after a couple of nights and days, a New York taxi
Drove over it with only the sound of a Manhattan speed bump
And no one by then was there to scream too loud and tell
The cabbie it was actually an illegal highbrow piece of art.

Back on Wall Street a hedge fund manager poked again
At his pet jellyfish to gather a spark of mania after giving
Up cocaine then proceeded with his wet dream of climbing
Everest or at least seeing Nepal through an oxygen tent.

He thought, ‘better than the framed nudes hanging in horrible Paris.’

Beneath the skyscraper where he works and huffingly lives
Coins were falling into a payphone
And with the stale odor of love or something more tartly terrible.
The list goes on, coins continue to fall with the sound

Of a xylophone deadened by a speed bump.
But that’s just between me, you, and our deaf gods.