Raggy rock and rollers whang electric guitars,
a sledgehammer rhythm on radios, rooftops,
stages, alleyways.
A raucous beat heaving patent leather feet
into discotheques from sea to shining sea:
Whisky A-Go-Go, California
Frisky A-Go-Go, Texas
Bin-Note A-Go-Go, New York
Parents barely survived
Pat Boone’s white bucks
and Johnnie Ray’s histrionics
when four Liverpool blokes took Ed Sullivan’s stage
last year in high-heeled boots, shrinking suits,
and sufficient hair to stuff an easy chair.
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”
To distinguish themselves from the Fab Four,
the butch bluesy Rolling Stones are the band
“parents love to hate.”
Mick’s thick lips suggest how his nights are spent.
“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”
Teens rarely touch one another while dancing,
nor do they gaze into each other’s eyes.
Yet psychiatrists and sociologists view
the orgiastic gyrations with horrification.
“Sick sex turned into a spectator sport.”
A Senate subcommittee is formed to investigate
the link between rock ’n’ roll and juvenile delinquency.