I’ve seen those, who seem to know something.
They parade the streets with stern grins and steely smiles, rich in pearly whites and flashy rags. Their eloquence is preceded by the pretence of unassuming ums and ahs.
Going through the motions of motions of chords and verses, they attack and decay.
They preach with all their twisted and vaunted vanity.
Rubbing the hard-grey bristles, and razor-sharp bumps that line their swelling faces; inflamed by harsh notes and the taste of moonshine in the light of day. Huffing and puffing, against the gnawing white noise of the urban sprawl.
Wrapping verbs and hooks around flying fists to do battle and brattle, with all who live and move and have their own being.
And it seems to me, that they know nothing at all.
The Philosopher's Poet 