When Punk Rock Is Dead (Wake Me Up For The Funeral)

It pains me to say

That I’m 49 years old.

It doesn’t mean a shit

To tell you that I’m punk rock

But I’ve got a mouthful 

Of broken teeth to prove it.

I STILL listen to my music LOUD.

The track marks

Are mentally still there

But physically gone.

All of my chiseled teeth

Were broken in fights

Or in the mosh pit

Except for this last one

Which was broken 

On a hard piece of rice

At a decent Mexican restaurant

In Northeast Philly

Amongst friends and strangers.

“FUCK!”

I winced

Spitting the

Fractured tooth

Out on my plate.

I ordered a tequila.

Drank it.

Then ordered one

For everyone else.

“FUCK IT!”

I said.