Old mister Kerouac singes in the medium
Of prayers so loud so open as the surf itself
Howling and beckoning with a quiet elation
A simple pride of being content with enough
Tho he did have a sin or two in him
And his defense is passed with austerity
No one should be ****** for being one who wants
No soul mind or single breathe is tainted
By minds other than their own
His gift gives still today in the old pages
Of faded ink and primordial vocation
He sings to children of this haunted hollow
World of dreamers and sad quitters and simple fools
How easily is he not heard
How simply good gems return to the soil
Finding their resting place calmly in the hum
Of undeveloped thoughts