| Know-nothing bohemians, arcane and lenient |
| Disobedient hicks addicted to the main ingredient |
| There’s more of us. It’s safe to assume there’s a movement |
| Drown in doubt. Down and out. There’s room for improvement |
| Casualties, gradually wreaking havoc, wrecking spots |
| Connect the dots. No such thing as second thoughts |
| Representatives of new truth and evidence. Hardly darker |
| Cycles and currents. Disciples of Charlie Parker |
| Che Guevera, rock star. Fuck off |
| The beat, the beat beat. |
| The plot thickens! The clock’s ticking. Time’s already brief |
| On the road and underground. The steady grief of the petty thief |
| The hustler. Muscular body, lazy brain |
| Riding the crazy train. Link in the daisy chain |
| Jism and Benzedrine. Booze and shock therapy |
| Heresy. We look dangerous and talk terribly |
| A nation of millions. Exclusive. Only the lonely |
| I know for a fact that your heroes are phony baloney |
| Maybe it shows. Known for the brainiest flows |
| Poems for no one spontaneous prose |
| It’s important. Vital. Complex text distorted |
| The coming of war and the next recording of Dexter Gordon |
| Vs. everything! The lowest life. Dizzy heights |
| Shitty sights. Shots in the dark and city lights |
| Laws of the lords. Applause and awards |
| Everything belongs to me because I am poor… |
| Che Guevera, rock star. Fuck off |
| The beat, the beat beat. |
| Abstract expression. No control. Hood jacket |
| Work boots. Swollen pockets. Stolen goods racket |
| Neutral. Camouflage. Better to show no style |
| Stay normal. Amoral. Keep a low profile |
| Smuggler. Fighter. Struggling writer. Pervert |
| Competitive fetishist. Bad seed, preferred dirt |
| Words hurt. Above and beyond extreme legality and censorship |
| Enter the new supreme reality |
| Che Guevera, rock star. Fuck off |
| The beat, the beat beat. |