Kippenberger on the streets,
he blends in,
feels quite at ease.

He smokes and stares at those he meets,
Tired conversations.
Kippenberger, privileged and Bourgeois,
You can afford to sit and wait.
To think and smoke and contemplate.
To drink up your annuity.

Why so tragic?
Why the long face?
Your sandwich board too heavy?
Break away the jokers guilt
to drink and smoke and smoke and paint.

Dear painter, paint for me a reverie in the streets.

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