Rise up, you underground prophets!!!
You, who hold the richest prize,
That being a salacious sense of self.
You know who you are,
And that is worth its...
Wait...
Are we bored with accolades? 
.
.
.
.
Nonsense,
We are only bored with the mask of independence;
And make no mistake, it is a heavy mask indeed.

The mask is worn by every artist who swears to "indie" virtue
With their hand firmly planted on a marketing contract.

No, no, no!
This is not an assassination of the one who makes bread.
This is a simple observation of the hypocrisy of artistic rebellion.

I once believed you,
Oh angry voice of youth,
When you promised my hungry ears a revolution.
Lately, however,
Your resistance to the "corporate parasites"
Can be found amidst biscotti and beans,
Framing a register with your warm-colored display,
Cellophane-wrapped voices can now be purchased at any participating Starbucks...
.
.
.
How dare you!
(I'll have mine in a "for here" cup, heavy on the foam)
How dare you, I say!!!

I know I am not responsible for your ascension,
But shouldn't I have at least been consulted?
Though I am not a disciple,
I am far from a pharisee,
"Not fair," I say!
You are book ended by a Doo-Wop compilation and something called the "Zac Brown Band."
Sadly, you look at home.
.
.
.
.
I'm terribly sorry, dear reader;
I was distracted by my own expectations
Being drowned in Anniversary Blend.
For coffee is good, but authenticity is better.
Reality, however, shouts, "Only one can pay the bills!"