Now it’s time we tuned back to those classic tunes
‘bout the moon-a in the June-a in the afternoon;
& we don’t need no modern-fangled feats
o’ olden tricks, like meter, rhymes, & feet;
we don’t need to throw chi or respond these pictures
o’ stars that aren’t stars
but whatever-the-something put into jars.
There are only a few grains o’ tricks hid in my pouch;
soon or late,
whether swoon or hate,
we’ll have to life your face out o’ that crevice in the couch.
—But gramps, I’m sick o’ that rusty ol’ sky;
¿don’t you know the moon is so last night?
Everyone knows that rainy gray afternoons
are the tunes that make the spoons on dudes swoon—.
But dummy youth blind
that hungry youth lap
up that ol’ night whine
e’en if in a new glass.
The Gorilla Glaciers to this night
swoon «¿Are You Gonna Be Mine, June Fly?»
on the ol’ compact disc device,
e’en if in a new context,
e’en if its text is in that new-fashioned texting text.
So go ‘head, put that needle back on the disc;
listen to the Crane build his Brooklyn Bridge;
let up or down the curtain;
curl under a blanket that makes it all certain;
& put on those ol’ MIDIs
o’ tinny sequin-amp-skinned ditties
o’ Koopa’s Road.
We all want to be home. We all want to be emo.
So fuck the stale laugh;
in fact the moonsong does e’erlast.
«Good dawn & good chance.»
