Talkin' Bout my Generation by Eric Sparks

We were sitting parallel, on a Ferris Wheel,
laughing and wishing we were like the freakish beatniks,
sitting in gondola beneath us, so we asked them to teach us,
and all they could say was ignore the preachers, and Jesus,
make nature our teacher, maybe live in a beach hut.
But we laughed at the cliché, and without delay,
searched through the big bale of hay, trying to find
a new way, something original to say.

I woke up as a teahead, worried, I reread
Kerouac’s Angels, and listened to what he said,
but I was still concerned the world would behead
me, and everything would soon be red, so I sat
and prayed to Oscar Wilde, for the chance,
to live a mild lifestyle for a while, with a dance and a real smile,
just to behave like a child, jump in the big leaf pile.

The best wishes aren’t granted; and the best trees aren’t planted,
but all opinions are slanted, angled, and the best people
are disenchanted and mangled; they all feel strangled,
but then falsely blame their faults on the star-spangled,
and ignore their old aim, no more bold claims,
sometimes the bottom of the ninth,
is not, the end of the ballgame.