Thursday, August 17, 2006


To today's guitar bands

You strut, with such artfully tousled hair,
Across the stage of Britain’s dying wastes.
Your low-rise denim’s ripped with utmost care;
Your fans lap up your faux-bohemian tastes.
Your style betrays stunted imagination
You’re spawn and father of your generation.

‘We stick it to the man!’ you sneer on stage,
While Sugar Daddy chuckles from the wings.
Laugh at the club girls dancing in their cage -
You’re trapped as they are, corporate playthings.
You differ from boy bands only this far:
You have no clue what prostitutes you are.

‘Let’s give ourselves a name that sticks in minds!’
The Arctic Monkeys, The Streets, Razorlight…
‘And write really deep songs with words what rhymes.’
And that’s just the beginning of the shite –
Why must Mockney be the accent of choice,
The more pronounced, the more genteel the voice?

‘We’re paying tribute to our favourite bands
Like Pink Floyd, Led Zep, Clapton and his blues.’
I fear you twats tread on the shifting sands
Where homage and pastiche become confused.
Will ten years hence a man his guitar pluck
In tribute to you wankers? Will he fuck.

You corporate sock-puppets, willing slaves,
Who dare to call yourselves rebellious!
Yesterday’s giants are spinning in their graves
As you squander the chance they gave to us.
‘We fight for individuality.’
Can you dicks spell originality?

Despite all this, I wish no ill of you.
I’d hate a guitar to electrocute
You on stage, or, when you try hard to poo,
Massive warts to be blocking up your chute.
(My doctor says repeat these last four lines
Fifteen times a day, and I should be fine.)

You sir, are a man of letters, indeed. A smith of words; a teller of tales and one of the funniest writers I think I'll ever read.

That was a tour-de-force and it's all true too! Bravo!
Give us the tune and we can sing it in the car.
Wot? No Keiser Chiefs?
Amen, and what's more, amen.
Seems to work quite well as a Fifty-Cent style rap.

I poem-jammed it.
Worked out well, anyone want a recording?

That last verse was a bit of a departure, but if you can't wax skatalogical in your own vitreol, when can you, I ask?

In this age of electronics, where there is no sound you can imagine that you can't make (well, except for colors. Can't make colors have sound. I know there's a mental condition that remedies this, but it is a subjective and involuntary method), then originality becomes increasingly difficult. --musically, anyway.
Go on then, put your mike where your keyboard is. Don't forget to throw in a gansta limp for authenticty, blap blap.
I'd be careful about putting the words of this post to music if I were you, as they contain a hidden Satanic message when played backwards.
Foot: Are they not present in the spoken word?
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