An Ode on His Plaidness

Thou still unplaid’d youth of OAR
Thou lost child of N’Sync and Billy Joel
Sylvan rhetorician, who canst thou pronounce
“Sufijan Stevens” and “Sigur Ros”:
What cupid-wing’d does wait in Ray-Ban suspense.
What obscure bands are these? Why listen to drone?
What is the point of the Game, “Namedrop-Obscure-Bands”?
What is “static”, “hiss” and “noise”?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those that no one

Has heard are sweeter for your need in superiority.
Unworthy to the uneducated ear, but, only to your gage-studded one.
(The rings matches the one in your nose)
Fair indie, guitar-strumming, ‘neath the trees
Thy song, nor even the trees can bear to hear;
Bold singer, never, never canst thou listen
To Sean Kingston or Al Greene—yet, you do not repent
Of your banal footwear of loafers and ankle boots,
And that red scarf—not hailing from Arabia—perish.

Sacrifice thy horn-rimmed glasses
And thigh-quelching corduroys
Fair attitude! O naked faux-hawk
Unveil from the straw fedora.
With soap and shower, thou
Bathed from your inventory of band tees

shalt remain among us

“Plaid is Rad, Rad is Plaid”—that is all
Ye know on earth, not music.

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