When I was a boy, you were one

of the men I wanted to be, punk attitude

wrapped up in a skin of pounding music,

and whilst I could not play bass,

or any type of instrument, I still wanted

that naked, fire driven approach, to be angry,

to dwell in me; mean, moody and magnificent,

a bad boy with a good heart, now I

watch you on stage and you slap your bass,

you treat it rough and I think

can I do that with words, a Kerouac love, mean