really plane poem
Posted: August 14th, 2009, 7:59 pm
this is the really plane jane poem
its not a freedom of speech far
reach ground breaking rip roaring
Howl not a low to the ground
gypsy growl its not even a
hep cat flick my bushy tail
meow
its not gonna move the earth
under your feet or make the moon
shine brighter its not an all-nighter
random street corner recital
its not Blake or the Rake on the make
its not gonna rattle yur world
or sex you up like a secret vamp
its not gonna sit you around the camp
fire, and tell the first sorry story that
comes out of the one that dares break
the silence
its not going to start a revolution
with its radical juxtapositions that
make you see things that only a poem
like that could do, no this is the really
plane poem, the one that goes by like
a bus on some forgotten highway
its not going to sneek up on you
and put a flower in your hand
or a feather in your cap
its not gonna sit on your lap
and whisper sweet nothings in you ear
some sweet somethings that tell you
like it is, tell you what it is, cuz, this ain't
that a one
this here ole poem ain't gonna make your sun
rise out of the muck of the horrible reality of run
or run like a rat in the race that never won a single
one, this is not a boo-cow-sky poem betting on the
horses that are all named after winners and sinners
its not going to take you out for candle light dinners
or rip you a new hole to blow the stars through, foo!
what ya gonna do, when this lil plane jane poem lets
you down, and it don't take you to happy the clown
or take you out on the painted read town, when painting
red was good, and you knew what you had to do, fly like
bird to the hangout tree where all the birds of a feather
hung and you all sung them drinkin thinkin songs
had to drink all the crazy people you knew,
had to write them lines that wrapped around their minds
but now Buddha gonna sit this one out, tell jesus that jesus
was here, and tell them smarty pants poets with them holy
ghost pages in they fists that they read to the crickets and
the tao mists that they sound out the jibberish jotted on space
that they walk back and forth and squeeze the last drop of ink
out of that rag that drag across the page like some infinite stage
oh plane jane poets this is not that kinda of free style walk a mile
its not a freedom of speech far
reach ground breaking rip roaring
Howl not a low to the ground
gypsy growl its not even a
hep cat flick my bushy tail
meow
its not gonna move the earth
under your feet or make the moon
shine brighter its not an all-nighter
random street corner recital
its not Blake or the Rake on the make
its not gonna rattle yur world
or sex you up like a secret vamp
its not gonna sit you around the camp
fire, and tell the first sorry story that
comes out of the one that dares break
the silence
its not going to start a revolution
with its radical juxtapositions that
make you see things that only a poem
like that could do, no this is the really
plane poem, the one that goes by like
a bus on some forgotten highway
its not going to sneek up on you
and put a flower in your hand
or a feather in your cap
its not gonna sit on your lap
and whisper sweet nothings in you ear
some sweet somethings that tell you
like it is, tell you what it is, cuz, this ain't
that a one
this here ole poem ain't gonna make your sun
rise out of the muck of the horrible reality of run
or run like a rat in the race that never won a single
one, this is not a boo-cow-sky poem betting on the
horses that are all named after winners and sinners
its not going to take you out for candle light dinners
or rip you a new hole to blow the stars through, foo!
what ya gonna do, when this lil plane jane poem lets
you down, and it don't take you to happy the clown
or take you out on the painted read town, when painting
red was good, and you knew what you had to do, fly like
bird to the hangout tree where all the birds of a feather
hung and you all sung them drinkin thinkin songs
had to drink all the crazy people you knew,
had to write them lines that wrapped around their minds
but now Buddha gonna sit this one out, tell jesus that jesus
was here, and tell them smarty pants poets with them holy
ghost pages in they fists that they read to the crickets and
the tao mists that they sound out the jibberish jotted on space
that they walk back and forth and squeeze the last drop of ink
out of that rag that drag across the page like some infinite stage
oh plane jane poets this is not that kinda of free style walk a mile