Mr Mascellani's Musings

There once was-like- this real
gone crazy cool dharma chicken from out of- like-
town who gobbled down goofy
grain balls filled with -like-goofy grain ball goodness
and- like–this groovy chicken-
like-never wore a frown,
on his dial,
you dig?
Until the day he learned
chickens can't play bongos nor bass real hot or cool -like-
cause they lack- like- an opposable thumb, and lips
so they can- like- groove and play a bit but never
Dad-dy-0
will they reach the standard of playing of an enlightened
being who’s- like-
one with the continuums of time and space
and -like-who has touched the Godhead
and can see the universe in a grain of sand,
and who can dig,
-like-really dig,
the poetry of William Blake.
Nor will a chicken ever play-like-somerighteoeus cat whose lady has left
him and has gone, really gone, gone, gone to -like- '
Vegas or maybe London
and- like- all that cat's got is- like-gallons of gin and vermouth
but -like- no olives
and with-like- Charlie Parker CDs with -
like- all the cool snap, crackles pops, and scratches
all -like -digitally
removed making them sound- like- real
square man, real cold, sterile and square, man.
-like-L7 square and that realisation got him-like-
you know, real down.
Real- like- beat
down beat
ungroovy
motherclucker down.