Sir!

The melted sand made clear

With cooling, dew drops dripping down,

Is full of carbon—hear

It rising through the bubbly brown

Liquid… just call it Coke.

Be Pop, commercial—do not frown 

At beauty, if it’s broke

Or bellicose or makes you drown.

 

The Teslas fill the street—

My son, he sees them all, YouTube

Had laid them at his feet—

He plays the game, he is no noob—

Electric as his brain.

The carbon-powered owner, rube,

Won’t see that all he’ll gain

Is formula when there is boob.

 

It’s fire, these modern words

That bubble up and pop the scene—

Some will curdle, curds

Of metaphors we’ve mixed, obscene

To expert, elite ears

Who get too salty, cannot glean

With carbonated tears

That on the now new art must lean.