For Jack S
Your songs flowed like syrup from the stage.
With your emollient inanity
You raised the stakes of vulgarity
A bad taste champion for a vulgar age.
There was a ready market clearly
For you trite songs. You would always give them
Your trademark, a clumping rhythm.
You possessed a redundant fertility.
There was a cruel hardness behind your eyes
Even your street-waif look did violence.
Apparently, you were beastly to your band.
This, frankly, comes as no surprise
For it was merely a pose, your innocence.
The worst cruelty comes from the bland
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