Unlike Charles Bukowski, perched on his box, seemingly up on his luck,
Drinking poems into grenades and rockets, carving oblivion into lines,
So coarsely rude, abruptly true, farting better than he could fuck,
Slicing bores and whores into bits, mixing base life with dollar wines.

Unlike Leonard Cohen, feeding his Suzanne Chinese oranges and tea,
With hallelujah tattooed on his lips, striking deep chords with his trips,
Singing deeply sublime, harbouring that perfect time, Cohen flies free,
Conjuring rhymes, mixing stanzas with storied chimes and red rose hips.

Teasing myself, full moon rising, no luck or oranges stuffed in my traveling bag,
With my Suzanne hidden in the wings, tugging at my heartstrings, from so far away,
 Lost love drags me o'er the embers and coals, never letting me go, constantly playing tag,
Bleeding and wounded, abridged and abrupt, foolish old fool, or so the wise say.

Maryjane holds my hand now, dancing with Pan 'round that forest stool,
Colourful cap on my top knot, chopping crude chords, flexing my base fingers,
Rumplestiltskin marks golden time, spinning chaff into dust, with the old fool,
While Robin Red Breast, stamped indelibly there, her nubile memory still lingers.

Armoured Inquisitors shouting 'CHARGE!', into that smoldering, hallucinogenic fray,
Swords at the ready, rushing to crucify foolish old Joe, adorned with his thorny crown,
Searching turf and nook for calendula blooms, colourfully indecent, so wonderfully gay,
Unforgiving in their sordid quest, zealots flay every worthwhile thing, not gray or brown.

Unlike Kerouac, sojourning on the road, up on Desolation Peak with Archangel Raphaels,
Piercing America's star spangled heart, leaving empties smashed upon the filthy street,
Mixing color and patina on rusty iron rails, crossing streets and beat lines, smoking Arab camels,
Introducing tortured martyrs and other hepsters, all those the Ginsbergs and Niks dream to meet.

So old Joe crows, chewing carrots, planting fat weeds that yearn to be cut and rolled,
Young Pan and Maryjane dolled up in their make-up, painted hooves, manicured nails shining,
So solid in their forest groove, laying down lines, amongst the whispering pines, verses told,
Rapping time on twinkling stars and flashy comets, with drum sticks and lucid tones, combining.

Yet somewhere in that garden, in that deep blue sea, amongst the flashy fish and glowing corals,
Storied futures stack up, reaching higher than Sagarmatha and Lhotse, from those cavernous trenches,
Reviling kings and thrones and crowns, truth requisitioned by Imps and Nymphs and Elves with morals,
Rounding corners, old oaks moan in blessed gales, as ancient mariners watch stoic from stone benches.

Therefore, unlike Byron and Browning, just out for love and poetic rhyme,
Old Joe lays down with snakes and slugs and worms, on their lofty terms,
Remarking with remarkable expression, in the key of Gee, rapt in four four time,
How life revolves 'round perfumed roses, thorn adorned, bordered by wavering ferns.