Frank hated his audience.

He was a military intel brat insert into the Laurel Canyon Rock and Roll Psyop

It's in that vein that I dedicate this 'poem' in his dishonor.

See how many cryptic references you can decode.

               Let's Be Frank

Now let's be Frank. It ain't a good lie unless it includes a log cabin.

Naval Intelligence, shaken, not stirred, add a dash of Freaks to the Tom Mix.

We'll need a Studer and a Studer baker, a former Quaker in the studio

An alluring zoot suit o' gold.

A golden older with a chip on his shoulder.

Deep-throat audio didn't pan out. Debbie did Dallas, so it's time to fan out.

Hollow weenies on the Eve of Destruction,

To belabour the point of Dekonstruktion.

Hating hairless monkees til the cows come home.

Send em to the locker like he did Davy Jones.

In sheiks clothing, Ever loathing,

His audience...they got cooties, you can bet Yerboutis

Big Wheel Spokes-man hitting the offbeat for the avante rear guard.

He knows Pop goes the weasle, but apparently,.... it isn't mutual.

"Watch, I can play reggae in 13/8."

Still, they dance, and it pisses him off.

When you hire the best, you can look down on the rest.

Agents provocateur.

Vito Incognito.

Throw a pot in my studio.

Dance a lot in my studio.

Highlife in the highlights til angel fell through skylight.

Still, they danced.

And the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.

No one use to do doo wop, like I used to do doo wop. Doo- wop. Doo-doo. Wop doo-doo.

So let's all go hang out at the hangout.

Go back to the 40's and pretend we're the future.

Pretend we're on drugs and howl with the Bauhaus.

Bau haus haus.

Or maybe we'll just stay here and murder Stravinski.

CIA hippy