title="suricate_punks" style="vertical-align: bottom; cursor: pointer" onclick="r_next();" height="486" "suricate_punks" src="http://fun-pics.com/suricate_punks.jpg" width="538" />
By H.J. Cruz
Deep tis the reason this alchemy o magic,
Life without thee seemingly tragic.
Pythagorean spheres for those without ears,
Or’pheus bleeds as all matter heeds.
The rock of ages, simitar sages,
Beethoven, Bach, larghettos clock.
Moonswept minstrels clad in leotards,
Lutes and flutes crooning royal cards.
Jazz and swing, Frankie & Bing,
Rhythm and blues, tabs on our dues.
Lyrics that rhyme, capsules of time.
Satchmo’s horn, beatniks of scorn,
Hippies on smack, consciousness cracked.
Dixie of o’l, songs to get loaded,
Move over rock; country’s exploded.
Floyd’s were Pink, Zeppelins of lead,
Mind altering substances filling their heads.
There was Elvis and Gay who sang to our soul,
now its Rap& rave, H-metal and Techno.
Generations have there own rule,
Today’s phat; yesterdays cool,
Still no matter what your disposition,
Always an empathetic minor composition.
Always music for hormonal lovers,
Pot bellied dads & menopausal mothers.
Sounds to chill and promote good will,
Holiday muse or sucking down juice.
Some fit our identity, others belch out profanity,
So when it seems the planet has neurosis,
Just scream out…