Poetry

The Predecessors

We were born of the beatest
Poets who ever beat around;
Who finished all the mad work
Before we could ever twinkle
With future poet anticipation;
They ingested all the cocaine
Leaving us with residue dust
That the junkies would lick
“Want not waste not”, they said
Which is a crummy metaphor for
Foolish lukewarm pot smokers
Hiding ashamedly in dark alleys
Trying to revive the yesteryears
Pretending they are rebel badasses;
We know the freezing cold truth though
Different times called for different rules
Those with words were paid in attention;
Now, everyone has something to say
Only them with loud voices are heard
And the rise to greatness has us forget
What is important and how we rose;
Left behind become the shmucks
Who waited for words to be enough…
We called them new age ‘beats’ once
Revolutionarily shooting up on Venice beach
Getting drunk out of brown paper bags;
If we saw them doing that now…
We’d call them ‘bums’.

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