Deep Thinkers

"Impromptu" is a word I like a lot,
The sort of word that people say in bars
While thinking about phonographs and spars,
Debating which technologies are hot,
Insisting Eden was no garden spot,
And wishing they had wives, and nicer cars.
My friends have stuck their heads in pickle jars
To ruminate while others drank and fought.

We are deep thinkers, filled with angst and rage,
World-weary, daft explainers of the air,
Pulling on our draft beers and our hair,
Powdered with baking soda, salt, and sage,
Our solitude the glory of the cage,
An absolute adherence to despair.