There is a man. One man. He wears bright colours.
Like hot blood spewing down a prism
he speaks of a rainbow that rains revenge.
He is a dangerman. The dangerman. One man.
He sings anthems on one foot
carries a red book, fingers its pages
and smiles. One man. A dangerman.
He smokes tobacco, cuts through sand
and denies desease behind a curtain
that showers.
The man.
A man, one man, the dangerman
will become king.
Every poor man will sing
As Troy sung for its horse.
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