There can be bebop and billowing skirts,
hot pastrami and cold beer, but only if
That’s the catch. We’re weighed down by doubt.
Can all this wonder be had for free? It’s
time to take stock.
All the pretty horses can’t put humpty dumpty
together again. It’s partly a matter of will
It’s mostly a matter of power, pure and simple.
And the will is half-hearted. There’s no
zeal. There’s no roll.
Ketchup, but no mustard. There are eggs, but
Benedict died last June of a stroke. Whoever
said we could have it all, lied.
The billowing skirts were not the first to go, but
the girls get tired of playing. They’ve
been recruited by the army.
Now women carry guns. Our next loss is jazz.
Without the blues, there’s no rhythm. The
country’s lost its beat.
Everyone is out of step. The problem
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