an aging wallsend indegene
poshly disguised in flashing electronic pomposity
whose inane auditory instincts i ought not grok
lest my soul be corrupted, abjectly
(and my oh-so precious aural integrity
so informed by my idea of canon
which is probably as self-defeating
as his banal contemporary smooth-jazz moodswings)
kind of rocked last night
to the tune of millions
(which is not the sort of tune one ought to)