Bearded like dictators, we’ll challenge
obscenity laws with words that
awe and we’ll save our Selves—morals,
residuals, and all—for later;
out running clichés, we’ve legacies
to outlive us and statements like
beds left unmade, but, Babe, we’ve no
time like we’ve got to burn out today.
Near to it, numismatic dudes who
coin the truth in new hues for those
seeking sounds to bite and chew, it’s
our pleasure to strike our view into
the molten pulse of platinum-bright
paupers, whose hands are the few—who
do not tremble—weighty heroes
seen beyond the face of what we do.
Cheated of our clues, deference so
deafening often sounds heated
and seems undue; when, with warmth so
fleeting, the subvertors seem subdued—
mechanical royalty unheard,
replies from mouths of our Canons
shoot forth words we’ve un-blurred, how we’ve
learned to stop wor’ying and photo-bomb.
Ours is the empire the sun never
sat on, but the vast reach of beach
each of our speeches burns up on—
to the acclaim of bottles, once found,
whose messages resound—sit down, Babe,
and share this crown, as we conspire
to breathe life into a world of
automatons needing to march on.