For a larger view of the yarnbombing of Carlson's work, see below. But first you have to get through the poem:
I think that I shall never see An historic statue as lovely as a tree But if I were a miner, armed with pick, I never could look more slick Or have a life quite so rosy As when I'm sporting my pick cozy.
The yarnbombing guerillas of Wash Park Have rescued me from eternal dark Added color to my bare palette And femmed up my rock-bustin' mallet. I'm ready now for the bitterest snow day My manly tool swathed in crochet.