100th post: out of control identity destroying poem posting frenzy

You Are a Nice Young Singer-Songwriter

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Two kinds of alcohol: one for hand sanitizer,
the other for barley wine and cheap wine.

You are not willing to hop a train.
Seamus is and slays the mandolin.
Charlie's in jail for having a dumb beard.

You are, at the moment, a talented hairdresser.
Politics is full of people in mobile caravans
who spend one night per month 100% sobbing.

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Eighty-four profile views today, nineteen plays,
well-mannered queries to the MP3 blog I Guess I'm Floating.

You are frugal when it comes to groceries.
Honestly, I will sleep with any haircut
out there. Sleeping is not that weird, sir.

You told your family several lies at Christmas.
Now you're stuck in Montana without a tire jack.
Townes Van Zandt had, for a soul, a squirrel nut zipper.

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Everywhere you go your fingers are slender.
Some of your meals are excellent and free.

The lute, the lyre, the songs for God and Madonna,
dangling from the tongues of the children
with the blackberry stains and the games.
Ash hands, ash hands: we all fall out, boy.