walk down the root cracked sidewalks and howl at the moon
your naked lunch is being served cold
on the potholed road to San Francisco
pull out your pocket full of poems
under the city lights and shout
you must sell all your stuff to live in your California
have you seen their supermarkets and strolled down their aisles?
nothing rhymes there
fog never rolls up in the village like dear old San Francisco nights…
But, what of dear Walt?
You know he’s watching
more than just the grocery boys
was it not he who gave birth to drunken poets and angels
to carry on the great work
the laughing heart which always
looks forward to the end
wine bottles empty
and cigarettes chain smoked.