Tune in to the tuned out

Turn on to the turned off

It doesn’t Matter

Anyway you work it

You can’t please ‘em all

Who cares if you’ve written

40, 000 poems

Blind folded in a deep dark pit

Though you may be the

Last poet standing 

Some poet-ego-enfant terrible

Will come along & bomb

You when you least expect it

All you can do is keep on keep on

Pounding those keys like freedom

Tune in to the tuned out

Turn on with the turned on

It can’t Matter

Anyhow you work it

You can only please yourself

Who cares if you’ve written

100, 000 poems

Blind folded in a pig stye

Though chances are you are the

Last real poet standing

Some poet-ego-enfant terrible

Will come down the road & shoot

You when you have your back turned

All you can do is keep on keeping on

Pounding those keys like freedom ringing

Tune out to the tuned in

Turn off to the turned on

It don’t Matter

Any time you work it

You can only please the moment

Who cares if you’ve written

420, 000 poems

Blind folded in a vat of poitlessness

Though the fact is you are the

Last poet with balls standing

Some poet-ego-enfant-terrible

Will stick the blade repeatingly into

You just as everything seems to be falling into place

All you must  do is keep writing the truth as you see it.

Pounding those keys like freedom singing