A Poem about waiting in line for the Basquiat exhibit on the second to last day and then seeing the movie with David Bowie in it two weeks later

The above makes this self-explanatory but awhile ago I saw the Basquiat exhibit at Brooklyn Museum with vampire from hell, otherwise known as rock you amadeus, otherwise known as Marty and I spent the better part of my breakfast writing this in iambic pentameter (not at all) so eat it up because it deserves that much:

Are there not Negroes who write grafitti
Of whom Madonna did not go down on?

For surely if there bees that poet
Half of Brooklyn will not know it.

Look at the blouse on that quiet girl mouse
When in repose she dreamt Hollywood Negroes

King on the top of my head not sufficient
That guard in the lobby could be more proficient

genius. roach. wish i had dreads.