The Bard Loves Young Berkeley Band Whipped!

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The greatest heavens of invention,
An arena for a stage, prodigies to play
And Marshal amps to strike the swelling scene!
Then should the pissed-off Whipped, like themselves,
Assume the port of slackers; and at their heels,
Leash�d in like hounds, should rage, howl, and fury
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,
The dull, unworthy spirit that has dared
On this paltry, petty, page to put forth
So great an object. Can this sheet hold
The vasty fields of Berkeley? or may we cram
Within this wooden square the very banshees
That did affright the air of whipped?
O pardon! since a crooked phrase may
Attest in little place of choruses;
And let me, proud witness to this timbre,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these lines
Are now confined four might musicians,
Whose power and uniqueness, the imposters
Of the narrow bay can never part asunder.
Piece out my imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand complexities divide one metaphor,
To lend the music justice;
Think, when I talk of guitars, that you feel them
Slashing and tearing at the receiving ear;
For tis� your thoughts that now must deck our bass,
That carries listeners here and there;
Crushing the accomplishments of o�er played punk/funk
Into a past nightmare. For the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this juggernaught;
Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,
Gently to hear, and heartfully judge...
Whipped!