(a Little Poem for Steely Dan)
Let it be the year 1977,
in the decade of Nixon, plaid, denim,
Carol Burnett, the Bunkers, and Cold War venom,
Elvis meeting Peter at the gates of Heaven,
popularized science ala Sagan,
the twin aftermaths of Woodstock and Vietnam,
and, finally, the songs of Becker and Fagan.
Let them pen a true American psalm,
a homily on the trinkets for which we yearn.
From their platform let them see the cannabis burn.
Let Wayne Shorter ascend to play the sax
and take control at the second chorus’s turn.
Place him in the spotlight, way up top, on the stacks,
up above the booths where the show is manned,
and from that height let him expand, let him expand.
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