The setting: it's a lonely café
Though filled with the hippest of hip
A group to circular for passé
And they're high on a poetry trip

They're cool, but not too cool for the smoke
Curling off of their cigarette tip
And they can't keep out the square-ish folk
Who just want to share a poem or two
Though all those rhyming poems are a joke
Squares just can't tell what's hip and new.

But first a real poet climbs to the front
Gauges the silence and checks the crew
Then reads off his  poem, describing the hunt
Of a caterpillar. The words fly
They shimmer and they confront
The pressing need for the old to die
To hail in the new, the un-rhyme poem
To battle against the urge to buy
Into the ordinary. To roam
The nation to overthrow all the squares
To destroy the suburbia home

In this piece he tries so hard to snare
The philosophy of his decade
And goad all of the old ones to dare
To contradict his New Age serenade
He predicts the downfall of the season
Of the softball games and lemonade
The downfall of rhyme, and perhaps reason.
All this inside of the lonely café.