You Might As Well Dance
Until the Fat Lady Sings
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on to the turned off
It doesn’t Matter
Anyway you work it
You can’t please ‘em all
Who cares if you’ve written
40,000 poems
Blind folded in a deep dark pit
Though you may be the
Last poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come along & bomb
You when you least expect it
All you can do is keep on keep on
Pounding those keys like freedom
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on with the turned on
It can’t Matter
Anyhow you work it
You can only please yourself
Who cares if you’ve written
100, 000 poems
Blind folded in a pig stye
Though chances are you are the
Last real poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come down the road & shoot
You when you have your back turned
All you can do is keep on keeping on
Pounding those keys like freedom ringing
Tune out to the tuned in
Turn off to the turned on
It don’t Matter
Any time you work it
You can only please the moment
Who cares if you’ve written
420, 000 poems
Blind folded in a vat of pointlessness
Though the fact is you are the
Last poet with balls standing
Some poet-ego-enfant-terrible
Will stick the blade repeatedly into
You just as everything seems to be falling into place
All you must do is keep writing the truth as you see it.
Pounding those keys like freedom singing.
* "You Might As Well Dance Until the Fat Lady Sings" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by The Commonline Journal in 2009.
_
Doug Draime (1943-2015) emerged as a presence in the 'underground' literary movement in the late1960's in Los Angeles, California. A Senior Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal, Draime's books include: Knox County (Kendra Steiner Editions) and Los Angeles Terminal (Covert Press), Boulevards Of Oblivion (Tainted Coffee Press), Farrago Soup (Coatlism Press), and More Than The Alley (Interior Noise Press). Draime was awarded PEN grants in 1987 and 1992. Born in Vincennes, Indiana, Draime lived in the foothills of Oregon since the early 1980's until his death in 2015.
Until the Fat Lady Sings
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on to the turned off
It doesn’t Matter
Anyway you work it
You can’t please ‘em all
Who cares if you’ve written
40,000 poems
Blind folded in a deep dark pit
Though you may be the
Last poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come along & bomb
You when you least expect it
All you can do is keep on keep on
Pounding those keys like freedom
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on with the turned on
It can’t Matter
Anyhow you work it
You can only please yourself
Who cares if you’ve written
100, 000 poems
Blind folded in a pig stye
Though chances are you are the
Last real poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come down the road & shoot
You when you have your back turned
All you can do is keep on keeping on
Pounding those keys like freedom ringing
Tune out to the tuned in
Turn off to the turned on
It don’t Matter
Any time you work it
You can only please the moment
Who cares if you’ve written
420, 000 poems
Blind folded in a vat of pointlessness
Though the fact is you are the
Last poet with balls standing
Some poet-ego-enfant-terrible
Will stick the blade repeatedly into
You just as everything seems to be falling into place
All you must do is keep writing the truth as you see it.
Pounding those keys like freedom singing.
* "You Might As Well Dance Until the Fat Lady Sings" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by The Commonline Journal in 2009.
_
Doug Draime (1943-2015) emerged as a presence in the 'underground' literary movement in the late1960's in Los Angeles, California. A Senior Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal, Draime's books include: Knox County (Kendra Steiner Editions) and Los Angeles Terminal (Covert Press), Boulevards Of Oblivion (Tainted Coffee Press), Farrago Soup (Coatlism Press), and More Than The Alley (Interior Noise Press). Draime was awarded PEN grants in 1987 and 1992. Born in Vincennes, Indiana, Draime lived in the foothills of Oregon since the early 1980's until his death in 2015.
