Chicago. Poem by Michael Gale

The windy city with it's tall spired steel...
Be these buildings that do not rock and roll.

Lake Michigan gained, watered ways...
The sea-n-tastic spray washes near the
Idolistic American.

As they perform on TV'S glassic square...
This week, all Americans do listen and stare.

No longer a judge, known as Paula...
On this evening, it was known as 'Boob Boxing.

The songs keep a coming...
Bad acts, keep a goin'.

It is funny how some cannot sing...
Those go away cussing, whil'est crying.

The eff's are launched with unaimed fury...
To those they on land, weigh down in a flurry.

I wish those who cannot really sing...
Goes away for good, no longer vocally, to bring.

Bring pain and sorrow, to all suffering ears...
Why on earth do the talentless beings, keep coming back, after, all these years?

Poor young and old fools, who think they can sing a song...
How blind they be, when they sing so wrong.

But to those who sing, and manage to stay...
Tomorrows the day of the gold records to play, and pay.