The Rip Post                                                                                              

Night Owl
Who gives a hoot,
who gives a damn
Who give a double darn?

Likewise, crosswise,
half a league, half-fatigued
shall we go yonder,
got funds to launder?

We got the time and cash
and lives to squander,
for eternity our souls
will wander, for millennia.

Alphabet soup, and
willing dupes, castigation
and lamentations.

Who gives a hoot,
I'm just an old coot
barnacles scraped
cosmic bodies japed.

Constellations refrained
from subjugation, subjunctive
neither constrictive or instructive.
Grammatical intensive and
verses inflexive. Ghost of a
chance, Gothic romance.

Words bounce off the walls,
Like a litany of mutinies at the mall,
Matinees rehearsed, reverberated verse

Listless inquiries dictated in reverse
penmanship, scholarship and academics
frag the prefrontal looey, it all goes kablooey.

Then, and only then, can we remember
the days of Mort, Munchkin, verdant hillsides
Hillarious, rattlers, CRQ, poptops and mudslides.

The rightful place of humankind begins
and ends with a perpetual "Ode to Joy."
The West, your dreams, can offer no
conception more compete or more remote.

In my day, we knew what that means,
In these days, no one can approximate,
or even audition, for the parts we played.
We thought that perhaps we'd strayed,
and our lofty virtues we'd betrayed.
But in truth the world left, but we've stayed.

Hiya, how goes it, hope all is swell,
rings true, forevermore, like a bell.
-- Jack Oakes 11/17/08


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