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, that’s a laugh, compare me to a writer!
Let’s face it I’m no hack, I’m 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. She’s hot, fiftyish,
A horsey bitch (that means she’s trifling fat) with glasses
And an acre for an arse – now that’s a place to ponder,
You’d get lost and wander for a week. I’ve got the time
But let me guess she’s short on gratitude. She’d screw
Me right tonight because she can, and if I sold a poem
That she liked she’d let me stay the night, perhaps the week.
And just like Jack I’m free and easy, but Jack is dead,
And I’m his living legacy.
Let me say I’m not like Jack at all. Sure, I might have been as a young man, perhaps I was, who cares! Kerouac inspired me then and I’ve always admired his style. Of course he wouldn’t have written a verse like this despite sharing the sentiments.