Allen Ginsberg's Howl begins like this:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz . . . .
Debra Saunders' parody of Howl begins like this:
I saw the vast majority of three generations destroyed by madness, cursing unethical betrayed
Spitting at frozen screens teasing 404 error waiting for the dusk of peak hours
Onesie-clad hipsters sipping hot chocolate little marshmallows bobbing blinking hashtags in a sea of brown
Who opened cancellation notices all hollow-eyed and bitter sat up spewing the PolitiFact-tested rhetoric of 2010 word wars that promised nothing unfair to anyone rural or citified, and all that jazz . . . .
Read it all, and howl with rage and laughter.