Jack and Beat,
On the fleet road again,
Poesy Jill crawled up beat hill,
Searching for desolation peak,
Angels tuned in with beatnik karma,
Turned on those hipsters peaked,
Turning beaked mountains upside down,
Traveling moaning city streets inside and out,
Descending into hip bottles of cheap wine,
Scratching the bottom of rich beat verse,
Ascending arm in arm with resounding dharma,
Sounding to the deep beat bottom,
Beat . . . beat . . . beat . . . ,
Jack and Beat snap nicotine stained fingers digging it,
Dig it deep tasting all that manic sweet,
Far back into dharma's naked far-out street,
Finding hip self on that deep beat road,
Deep beat . . . deep beat . . . deep beat . . . ,
Where stoned angels and drunk poets grooved with shy Raphael,
Behooving drink with smooth jazz and street bleat,
Flint poetry rising skint like Bird soaring high,
Roaring like lions those hip hepsters jived to fly.