tantalize poets with visions of grandeur,
their faces turn blue with the reek of the compost,
as the living try hard to retain what the dead lost,
with double dead sickness from writing at what cost
and business and business and reverse and reverse
and set the brain reeling the inverse and perverse
with cheap simian melodies, hillbilly outgush,
for illiterate ramblings
for cheap understanding
the simple the inverse,
the compost, the reverse,
the obtuse and stupid,
and business, and business, and cheap, stupid lyrics,
and simple mass reverse while the real thing is dying
jumpsuit and pig meat and making his fortune,
while making them happy with the inverse and obverse
and making them happy and making them happy
with the coy and the stupid,
just another dumb lackey,
who puts out one thing,
while singing the other,
but the real thing's alone and it is no man's brother
oh, not to be whistled or studied or hummed
or remembered at nights, when the I is alone,
but to skewer and ravage and savage and split
with the grace of a diamond, bellicose wit,
to stun and to stagger with words as such stone,
that those who do hear cannot again return home
