PAD Day 21: Bieber Gets New-York-Schooled

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "back to basics" poem, and (2) write a "New York School" poem.  The New York School is a particular style of writing among New York poets of which Frank O'Hara was probably the standard bearer. NaPoWriMo has a link to another site that give you a "recipe" for over twenty elements that are characteristic of this type of poem, such as someone to whom you are addressing the poem, specific place names in the New York vicinity, prolific use of proper names, pop culture references, consumer goods and services, slang/colloquialisms/vernacular/ profanity, at least one celebrity, at least one question directed at the addressee, references to sex or sexual innuendo, etc.
I used all the above elements here, but I'm not sure if it's really "New York School" style, a parody of same, or just a "New York poem on steroids".  As far as "back to basics", I guess the contrast between the working class of the poem's persona and the celebrity class has kind of a "basic" theme.  By the way, those of you who know me, know I very rarely drop the "f-bomb" in my poetry.  Here, I use it three times - it was kinda fun.


I Don't Give a Fuck about Justin Bieber

who says he’s retiring from show biz.
You whiny little prick, what do you know
about real work? I put in thirty-eight years
with ConEd, asshole. Every day I do something
you’d never touch, ‘cause it might muss up
that sissy hair of yours. Don’t talk to me
about retirement – I got a toolbelt
that’s older than you – Sears Warehouse, 1989.
I take the L to work every day, not some
fancy-shmancy limo. I eat at McDonald’s,
not the Russian-fucking-Tea Room.
So help me out here – what makes you
deserve to retire before me?
Oh yeah, the money – you make more
in a week than I do in a year.
Let me tell you something, punk –
when I retire, and hand to God,
it’ll be before I die – I’ll still have my
little bungalow in Flatbush with the wife.
Maybe we’ll do it a couple times a week –
I still got something left in the tank.
I’ll drink beer and watch the game at night,
but maybe I’ll buy me a truck, nothing pricey,
maybe an old Ford F-150, 
and I’ll cruise out of town when I feel like it,
head over the GW to see my brother in Fort Lee,
and the windows will be down and the radio
will be blasting Led Zeppelin or Aerosmith
or maybe even Toby Keith,
but never Justin-fucking-Bieber.