The Beatnik Poem by Alexander Roussel

Poor thing thinks he’s talented!
In his black turtle-necked sweater and black beret,
Drinking his black coffee, snapping his black fingers…
Okay – so his fingers aren’t black, but still!
Beat, beat, beat…
He spills his words, his poems, his feelings.
Poor thing thinks he’s soooo neat!
Scribbled scraps of paper litter the floor,
Failed attempts at greatness dot from here to the door.
Beat, beat, beat…
Poor thing thinks he’s the stuff!
Poor thing never knew it could be this tough!
He’s got the look! He’s got the coffee!
Where did he possibly go wrong?
The tone-deaf and rhyme-less boy, trying to be a beat-poet...
That! That is where he went wrong!
Beat, beat, beat…