For the Unwilling Lamb


Kurt Cobain –

Blondehaired, six-stringed
             Slinger of abstract lyrical Dada
     Reluctant and unwilling lamb
                                As it stands, it’s been
                   Nineteen years since you
                                 Were led to slaughter
                             By carnivorous, conniving
                                                Corporate shepherds
                                    With their green and greedy crooks
Nineteen years since you
                   Played tonsil hockey
                            With the inevitable shotgun
And as it stands,
          There is currently
                  An entire generation
           Of children who do not
                       Recognize your face
                                     Let alone your name
There is currently
           Some fey teenybopper fag
               In a two-bit haircut
                         Running his mouth
             About how he is
                       Your second coming
And rock ‘n’ roll
                     Has died –

It was a tedious, slow death too
                                Rather undignified
                  And at its funeral
                          Which I found to be quite lackluster
                The pallbearers all
                            Wore skin-hugging leather pants
                                  And abhorrent goatees

But goddamn, has it really
                     Been nineteen years?
          I can still vividly recall
                         The media solemnly
                    Announcing your departure
                                    And your image adorning
                               The cover of Rolling Stone magazine
                     And the precise moment
                              Where I was old enough
                                                  To fully appreciate

Where would I be, Kurt?
                    Where would I be
       Had your Lounge Act
                             Not enamored me?

I probably would have
               Joined the football team
                        And knocked up some vacuous Siren
                Who later would metamorphose
                                   Into a Harpy, as is often the case
                   Nursing my swollen stomach ulcers
                                On cheap pissbeer
                   Boiling over with fiendish resentment
                                 For my condemnation
                                           In some blue-collared Hell
                               And the pimpled little brat
                        Who put me there

Thank Whatever Never Mind for you, Kurt
                    For opening up that Heart-Shaped Box
            And exposing the radiant
                          Netherworld of Punk Rock within
                Releasing the gracious surge
                              Of fuzzed out power chords
                    And adolescent rebellion
                               For alleviating my sickly veins
                                          With Lithium
           And for breaking the incessant
                                Aneurysm of aimless woe

So sorry, Kurt – So sorry
                    That you were always
                            All Apologies
                         When you really
                                          Didn’t have to be –

-r. miller


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