~ An Ode to my Generation ~

Some scribblings recently found in the back of an old notebook. Not Byron or even remotely good, but it make me laugh to read it again.

Oh young woman, on the corner's street,

Why does your laugh sound so fake?

Your eyes be long with blackened paint

Your hair be straight, of unnatural make

You squark and strut like that rooster's mate

With ruffled feathers and an injected hide- 

You are like the chickens stuffed with paste

That at my grocery store are daily fried

And consumed, as part of Sunday lunches

Devoured by culture with many munches

Meat broken off and bones thrown away-

My dear, is that not you today?