Street Artist

I need to write my name everywhere,
On the bus and in the train,
To see a blank and fresh painted surface,
Causes me much pain.
I'll tag any type of building,
The street and gutters too,
The hospital and the police station,
The morgue and the zoo.
You should appreciate my commitment,
My art and work ethic,
To not be surrounded by street art,
Is just bordering on pathetic.
I work steadily on new designs,
With products experiment,
Using new and different paint techniques,
And products I've been sent.
I'll paint on any surface,
I'm a concentration of skill,
I'll even paint moving objects,
To get a challenging thrill.
But recently I got caught again,
To spend the night in jail,
This is just another warning,
Through the experience I'll sail.
Of course there were no witnesses,
Even though everyone new,
There was not enough for a court of law,
There was nothing no-one could do.
But there was something in the water,
It put me straight to bed,
I awoke the next morning,
With a rolling thunder rumbling,
In the centre of my head.
My cellmates were quite hysterical,
Behind them my thoughts lagged,
Until I looked at my body,
For in my sleep I had been tagged.
The officers and my cellmates,
The business owners I'd defaced,
Had all come in with a tattoo artist,
And over me graffiti placed.
Like, "One day I'll be man-sized",
Placed on my balls and dick,
And in the centre of my forehead,
"And you thought a stone was thick ..."
Of course there were no witnesses,
Even though everyone new,
There was not enough for a court of law,
There was nothing no-one could do.

This is a twisted poem, where the subject (I HATE them) is the subject of the twist. If only it were true ...