Sonnet: Losing My Smug Blues
by John Kendall Hawkins
Aren't we something, the way we torture the blues,
to squeeze out little pop songs on young love;
Smiley Silage, her pants on like a glove
twerking, she's often my five-minute muse.
And don't get me started on the milquetoasts;
Men who would warble like Edith Piaf
long-necked, funny, dressed like Dali's Giraffe,
or some weird combination of both coasts.
You have to do the blues just right, live it.
Climb till you've reached the surly face of God
and whomped the smug loner upside his Head,
a glad Icarus falling, smile vivid.
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