Everywhere I go

I find that a poet

Has been there before me

I think that we have a vigilante

Somewhere in this mad city

He or she just blows away

All that is not clean or wholesome

Do we have any clues

Not many although tubes of oil paints

Were found at the scene of the shooting

Perhaps the scumbag was an artist

I think not as a book of poetry

Was found in his pocket

Whose poetry

The Wasteland by T S Eliot

Anything else

That and a French phrasebook and dictionary

I know that this sounds stupid

But I think the vigilante is already playing us

And has travelled to Paris or somewhere else in France