Mick Jagger’s Pogo Stick

Obscene how he prances and preens string bean lean
in skin-tight jeans, a jumping bean on amphetamines,
or take your pick he’s a pogo stick, a dick, a prick or
oily dipstick—all so slick but clearly impolitic—

but I balk, such a crock, all this talk about the cock
of a superstar of rock, how women gawk at his zipper,
guess the size of his flipper, imagine it’s a Big Dipper,
fantasize he’ll strip her,

guy’s pretty chipper for a matey almost 80 who still
attracts the ladies, takes pride that “Time Is On My
Side,” what a helluva ride but he’s just now hitting his
stride, yet where’s his retraction of

“I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” hell, Manchester United
don’t get that much action—“Let’s Spend The Night
Together” any time place position or weather, it doesn’t
have to last forever, he likes to bonk then go swimming

with all those “Honkytonk Women,” chooses his “Angie”
helter-skelter, knows she’ll “Gimme Shelter” but let me
interject should you detect as I expect, perceive a lack of
respect, then you’ve got it wrong because all along

he’s written great songs— who doesn’t cry “As Tears Go
By,” revel at the artistic level of“Sympathy For The Devil,”—
singer/songwriter par excellence even if he’s quick to drop
his pants, and we’re hypnotized by his stage persona, helps

blot out memories of Madonna, so why shouldn’t he be chillin’
with Nobel Laureate BOB DYLAN, how thrilling, fulfilling to see
them share the throne, no longer “complete unknowns like a
rolling stone,” Dylan usually more comfortable alone,

unleashing lyrics with a moral tone, incantation for a generation
through poetry not pontification, his words just floating in air
their meanings not at first clear, camouflaged layers of rhyme
popping up at the strangest of times,

he fully deserves veneration despite establishment detestation
because “Mr. Tambourine Man” took a stand against Vietnam,
he focused his prism to expose racism and the societal schism
from materialism, a gravely rasp warned of mankind’s’s last gasp—

do you recall his clarion call “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall”— finding
God is the answer not war so Dylan keeps “knock knock knocking
On Heaven’s Door,” but when rock became schlock and folk a joke,
he refused to conform because he’d been born to transform and

so provoked he uncloaked a masterstroke, an idea long “Blowin’ In
The Wind” left folk purists chagrined, they booed him ‘cause he’d
sinned—daring to play an electric guitar was taking things too far—
there’d be no “Shelter From The Storm” for pulverizing the norm,

taboo to the reactionary few who bid him adieu with a truculent
‘screw you,’ “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” but with this break-
through folk music breathed anew which led to a rendezvous with
Shotgun WILLIE, NELSON the name, outlaw country his game,

a monotone that goes from groan to moan but he can also be a
humdinger ringer for a jazz singer, anathema to right-wingers, a
White House stoner martyr when he shared a joint with the son
of President Jimmy Carter, so yes some folks think

this pope of dope is crazy, mannerisms lazy, reasoning sometimes
hazy as if the man with the braided red hair isn’t really there, blind
and blotto on a “Bloody Mary Morning,” snoozing from all the
boozing wreaking of weed his marijuana steed whimpering

she’s “Always On My Mind,” hell, he’s been married three or four times,
admits he caused all their pain, those “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain,”
but there he goes “On The Road Again,”... still to every farmer in need
he’ll always be a friend indeed because when their lives went to seed,

their “Heartland” American dream fell apart at the seams, he was
dismayed they’d been betrayed so he founded Farm Aid, accolades
delayed because of tax bills unpaid, the IRS brayed he was a renegade,
belonged in a stockade, “If You’ve Got The Money, I’ve Got the Time”

so much more than a throw- away line, the Feds not agreed to let him
pay in weed ... but something pure and plaintive in his Texas soul,
that cowboy remorse not found in rock and roll got the attention of
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, took him in a direction completely unforeseen,

this working class guy from the Jersey Shore “Blinded By The Light”
and energized once more, heading out west on “Thunder Road” but
can’t escape the “Ghost of Tom Joad,” singing ballads in bars under
“Western Stars,” dejected that a country given so much

has somehow lost its “Human Touch,” the little guy’s future abjectly
dire, no way of getting where he aspires, life slowly smothering his
“Fire”, wasn’t meant to be that way if you’re “Born In The USA” but
we’re beyond our “Glory Days,” life’s gritty, shitty in the city,

knocked and locked down in “My Home Town,” still it’s not yet time to
call for Springsteen’s“Wrecking Ball” because the Boss will give his all
to help forestall his nation’s downfall, defiant self-reliance from a
septuagenarian non-sectarian vegetarian who’s done all he can,

stood up for the vets of Vietnam, in “American Skin” cried out his
chagrin at our ongoing sin, a system where minorities can never win,
and this musician supported the mission of the Rainbow Coalition,
a transgender bathroom law stuck in his craw so he cancelled a show

as a quid pro quo, his way of saying “frig it” to those homophobic
bigots, drawing applause from “Rocket Man,” imagine ELTON JOHN
with the American, tank top, boots and faded jeans, blue collar patriot
with the “Dancing Queen”—sorry to be the robba of a song by Abba—
whose own“Circle of Life” was rife with strife,

as a lonely boy pleading“I Want Love,” something father was incapable
of, a militaristic martinet, wrong mindset for “Benny And The Jets,”
cruelty Elton couldn’t forget, conflicted inside about being gay, prayed
that those yearnings would go away, felt guilty, that he’d sinned,
blown around like a “Candle In the Wind,”

drugs and alcohol leeched life from his art, he begged abusive lovers
“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” attempted suicide—yes he saw that
white light—but“Someone Saved My Life Tonight,” getting up off the
canvas he now stood upright, and it was “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”
as a new man serenely strode

toward Broadway, films, British knighthood, marriage and fatherhood
felt so good, “I’m Still Standing” no more a “Honky Cat,” giving back
is where he’s at, unafraid to crusade against AIDS ,used his prosperity
to found a charity that fights the barbarity of loggers who persist in
razing the rainforest...Now I know

you consider me a bore and without a doubt deplore the theatrics of
this didactic geriatric extolling singers jurassic, find it uncouth how
I’m loose with the truth, inveigh against my every segue because you
think all my links stink but despite your cavalier sneer these five
balladeers really are without peer,

have persevered and heard cheers for more than fifty years,
performers fantastic, personnas charismatic, each one enigmatic,
and although you demur I won’t be deterred in demanding you defer
to this acknowledged connoisseur as I castigate every candidate you
nominate, those you inflate, consider great, they’re all the same,

so very lame, aflame with self-acclaim after fifteen minutes of fame ...
although it makes me wince to have to omit Prince because of the
brevity of his longevity, it’s impossible to disdain the brilliance of
“Purple Rain,” guitar riffs so insane, he was the music industry’s
bane, his fight for artistic freedom engrained, and although

they’ve never appealed to me, I agree that Stevie Wonder and Bob
Marley might deserve to top the marquee ... now, ahem, turning to
those I condemn— oh yuck a goober of phlegm— let’s commence
with Eminem, aging rapper with a raging flapper, a druggie who was
nearly gone, saved by—oh, perfect—Elton John,

but you dimwits still can’t resist this homophobic misogynist, then
there’s Michael Jackson the King of Pop, father beat him and wouldn’t
stop, turned MJ into Peter Pan, he built his own Neverland so young
boys could sleep with the dirty old man, inspiration to “Breezy” Chris
Brown, so sleazy he’d make Quasimodo queasy, thought he could do

whatever he please-y, life with this prima donna was never Nirvana for
Rihanna, she was nearly a goner, and now for the very “best,” obviously
I say that in jest, we genuflect to Kanye West, gospel-rapper humility
in the crapper, pompous chump who stumped for Trump whom he then
dumped, because with no dubiety he believes he himself has the piety,

deserves to be a deity ... can anyone with complete sobriety think these
bums are a boon to our society, yet how healing, how opportune at a
time when mankind needs to commune, how about a concert from the
moon, billions deliriously swoon as Bob, Willie, Bruce and Elton jam on
tunes, slick Mick, buns on the run, again his pants have come undone—

performing tricks as he lasciviously flicks his pogo stick.