Poem: The Blues is Alive…and… well?

A poem about a hideous new/ish strain of 'blues' music.

an old guitar with at least three strings,
a harp to hack away on. That’s all the

makings right there. Now we must choose
our clothes. We’ll need cloth caps, and

overalls too, I fancy a rag dangling from
my back pocket, you should tie one

around your head. If they can see hankies
dangling, they’ll know we’re really feeling it,

and that we mean it too. Then it’ll be time
to work on our tunes. Something about 

“really feeling it”  will do just nicely. Now,
what craft beer shall we order for the rider?

And how many names on the guest list?
And how much should we charge on the door?