The Great Gatsby: A Poem

The Great Gatsby—where do I start?

Perhaps with author F. Scott Fitzgerald

He died at age 44, attack of the heart

His lifestyle, it seems, had put him in peril

 

Born in 1896 in Saint Paul, Minnesota

He spent some time in the city of Buffalo!

No wonder he drank well above his quota

That’s the norm in Western New York, what with the snow

 

Anyway, he became a Princeton guy, also a socialite

And he had experience with what he wrote

When it came to intellect, the light burned bright

Avoiding humanity’s pitfalls? He missed the boat

 

Enter The Great Gatsby—novel number three

It was 1925, and it sold some in its days

But after Fitzgerald died in 1940

It became the Great American Novel—nothing but praise

 

But why? What is it we see?

How did an era novel become so timeless?

First it was the prose, quite like poetry

But now the story itself has reached sublimeness

 

It’s all in there—the stuff of humans

A poor guy striving to be rich

Throw in a love story that ends in ruins

The bottom line—life’s a b*tch

 

We aspire for money and its partner called power

After all, that’s the American way

But there’s a risk of building an emptiness tower

Like a drug, the ecstasy won’t stay

 

Then there’s the issue of white supremacy

Back then it seemed in vogue with elites

Now the issue is one of great delicacy

But let’s be real—it ain’t obsolete

 

And the question of good versus evil

That one will never go away

Even as it pertains to the illegal

An open mind can always see gray

 

Of course, there are those who leave no doubt

Sadly, they’re often in charge

Glad to toss fellow humans about

Use them as tools to then live large

 

Obsession with the past is also a theme

We all know that rarely ends well

What nostalgia perceives as an endless dream

When viewed in the present reveals mere hell

 

But at the end of the day, does anything change?

American decay has been predicted for years

It’s been here, with us, it’s nothing strange

The ideal is still measured in deep-pocketed peers

 

The Jazz Age is now, just with some new tunes

People still flock to the modern-day Eggs

They’re called the Hamptons, and they’re free of goons

Well, poor ones—rich ones are harder to peg

 

So go ahead and read the novel

You’ll nod your head, as it’s not so past

You’ll see some actions that should not be modeled

It’ll perhaps remind you of the week called last

 

Better yet, be a true American

Play your part and act a bit thick

Screw the book and all the comparison

Go DiCaprio-Maguire and just watch the flick