The critic gushed and said, Just like Jack,
so raw, I never thought to see another writer just
like Kerouac! Kerouac, who the fuck is he? A writer?
Christ, thats a laugh, compare me to a writer!
Lets face it Im no hack, Im not so much to look at either,
but maybe Jack took crumbs like me. So she likes
the verse; well maybe not, I can see her eyes
are focussed far too short for that. Shes hot, fiftyish,
a horsey bitch (that means shes trifling fat) with glasses
and an acre for an arse now thats a place to ponder,
youd get lost and wander for a week. Ive got the time
but let me guess shes short on gratitude. Shed screw
me right tonight because she can, and if I sold a poem
that she liked shed let me stay the night, perhaps the week.
And just like Jack Im free and easy, but Jack is dead,
and Im his living legacy.
© I.D. Carswell
Let me say Im not like Jack at all. Sure, I might have been as a young man, perhaps I was, who cares! Kerouac inspired me then and Ive always admired his style. Of course he wouldnt have written a verse like this despite sharing the sentiments.