Beat anxiety, that's what the T.V. ad, blinking truth serum, said,
Beat depression, too, at least that's what this simple pilgrim read,
So I thought, yeah, no doubt, there's left, a remnant of that beat generation,
Still scrambling out of ditches, slipping on the dregs of life, wand'ring 'round this tormented nation,
So yeah, it made some sense to unembellished me, those beat folk are oft a burning anxious lot,
And yeah, there's them seekers, sleep depressed, wake depressed, infested, slimed by the grundgy walk they got,
Strange how T.V., so it seems, acknowledged those, needled in heroine clothes, donning crack and crystal shoes,
Them folk, hid away in rotting cities and stinking alleys, rummaging prized crap that fatter cats and rats tossed out, such thirsty life behooves ,
Now it dawned on me, sitting out of town in my dirty hermit shack, surrounded by so much of my own lack,
Dreaming of Mexican beaches, salivating with the thought of fresh peaches, relished tourism on a stick, but in reality,
All that good stuff, those with jobs and funds bind, those with excess dollars find, so blatantly obvious to me,
What the beat generation still pursues, hippies now, all that peace and groove and love, along with other fools,
All that wine and pot and poetry, slammed and smoked and spoken, like ancient rhymes,  wielding life's lofty tools,
Oh so cool! Just social misfits, shuffling along, with their misgivings, festooned in baggy pants, ragged skirts and longtime hurts,
All those homeless folk, those worshippers of spice, all those bedraggled nymphs and losers, cruisers, adorned in worn out shirts,
Not unlike those poets and winos, some long dead and gone, wizened sprites and armoured knights, that strove to live the beatnik life,
There's this relic, unwanted surplus jazz, still thinking Kerouac and Ginsberg and Waits, reciting spirited words and vines and lines,
Retelling snapping fingers, with electric zap, so powerful still that Moloch cowers, hotter than sizzling lava, drizzled, sometimes poured, from lofty cement towers,
Speaking hymns and rhymes, in these martyred times, cooler than a thousand New York nights, all cracked up and murdered, via secret hurricanes, growing segmented flowers,
More truthful than all the dead and dying, children sliced and killed like head lice, lying diced and bled and crying, on some foreign battleground,
Where helter-skelter innocence, frame by whitewashed frame, is flung pell-mell, scattered  reckless,  all around,
Into the flames of hell, for Moloch to tear apart, bloodied dessert for the fiery beast, delivered with savage unruly wrath,
Causing all this beat anxiety and hip depression, washing through timid street ranks, calling out with unholy howl, leaving rank oily streaks along that well worn path.
So now we see, there is no glee, in this precious premise, that fascists too, doped up with ativan and lorazepam, dream those night mare walks,
Suffer side effects, drafting their own wicked knocks, all stretched up in their tailored suits, noosed in blasphemous ties and shiny shoes, as they walk their fetid talk,
Cognitive deficit of delorazepam from their shelves, scraping facts and feces from their virus ridden lives and selves, wallowing in wealth, wanting to beat anxiety and depression,
Wending through their fearful, angry lives, stumbling half drunk and blind, confused, along that torrid path, wond'ring what street to safely take, sensing true confession.