Kerouac

Desire destroys, fame inflames
And havocs innocent spirits.
The creative being is better off
Hobbling through an unsung waste
Than speeding over champion heights
Bursting with accolades and roses.
Commercialism corrupts; it robs
Imagination of its riches, shoves vanity
Into the poet's arms and says:
"Copulate without emotion."
Think of the madman sage of our nation,
That tipsily balanced sad sack, Jack,
Whose hard times yielded inspiration,
Whose noggin seemed always about to crack,
Yet he rebounded. Penniless, rootless,
So utterly Beat, he transmuted lack
Into stacks of proletarian hymnals;
Soaring through tarry roadbed heavens,
He mirrored stars with glittery grit.
What doomed him, what raised him etherward
Then hurled him down to rockbottomed earth?
Alcohol, sure, but the damage began
With success, which flayed his protective shell,
His armor of cagey obscurity,
And exposed his tender, ingenious organs
To critical lashes. Troubadours, writers,
Heed this lesson!
Hide the jewels begot of your brilliance,
Resist the temptation of royalty checks,
And live your lives free of accommodation
Till you've spent your last unconventional dime.