how fortunate are you, child?
I couldn’t abort you.
now I’ve given birth to you.
nothing shall kill
your breath till
you tell this truth.
you have come:
to live and to love.
I name you Deft-Daft.
you’re like Jabez,
borne out of the sorrow
of my marooned heart;
you’re Ichabod—
hasn’t the glory departed?
you’re my child; now be also my
herald
Go ye
to that tribe of kooky tune-smiths
and tell them
how deft their sound
how daft their lyrics
how doggone their voices
how gaga their listeners
how savage their songs
how brief their existence.
tell them, tell them!
tell those loony song-smiths—
whose choruses are chanted in all
wacky-wacko-psycho muster—
to sing the beauty of Nature
and cover her nakedness.
tell them, tell them
how their ignoble lyrics
defile the minds of the young
and ravage the mind of the sages.
singing, dancing, capering
grinding, swinging, raving
smoking, drinking, popping
buying, selling, fighting
cursing, prattling, puking
feel-high-ing, bubbling, hurting…
dying of excessive pressure for
treasure
dying for excessive measure of
pleasure
tell them! tell them
their errant lyrics
bear bawds and brainless brawn
whose thew thaw in stew!
sing—dance—darkness—phew!
watery lyrics filled with bhang
to rouse doomed youths.
their music, their fall;
their melody, their pall.
tell them. tell it to them.
then like an Abiku,
die your final death.
when you are reborn
to live your final life,
I shall rename you Deft-Deft.
