When the new gens revisited
I knew it would be awhile before
they had skin in the game
It was a tell
To the coming tribal
A revival of clan
in a hermitic guise
of a timestamped
of a coming future broken,
the history of which is
Right damn now.
I could crack open that new Friday bottle of Basil Hayden,
and bourbon up to channel that Nobel Prize winning poet,
with an under earphones and riotous rendition of the last song
on John Wesley Hardin. Those Good Ole Days… People.