06-07-2012, 03:18 PM
(Yes, I know. For those of you of my generation there are a lot of words here,
some of them even big words, so I will forgive you if you choose to take a pass on this.)
Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed. and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume!
Penetrations unbridled, gestations unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.
Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.
We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.
That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.
©2008 ~Erthona
some of them even big words, so I will forgive you if you choose to take a pass on this.)
Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed. and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume!
Penetrations unbridled, gestations unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.
Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.
We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.
That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.
©2008 ~Erthona
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
