Crawlin’ at midnight, under the moon, Potato bugs hum their quiet tune. Tiny legs paint where no one can see, Leaving behind their bug graffiti. Potato bug tags on a cracked concrete wall, Silent scribbles, no words at all. Nature’s art in the smallest way, Gone by morning, here to stay. Lines in the dirt, trails in the dust, Marks of a life, simple and just. They leave their story, raw and free, The hidden art of graffiti.