poem

They say if you remember the 60’s
You probably wasn’t there
I remember strutting my stuff
Skin tight bells, long blonde hair
Hitched from Maine to California
without the fear that I would die
There was pot everywhere
Half my world was high
Communes sprang up everywhere
There was always a place to stay
Homeless was not the problem
It seems to be today
Farmers trusted us
We’d camp out in their field
Today it is bend or break
Occasionally we yield
Oh, the elders frowned
They did not understand
We were young and alive
Living off the land
The world was our oyster
We were the pearl in the shell
Wanting to be a little high
Wanting to raise alot of hell
We traveled from town to town
And we’d create quite a fuss
In our brightly painted
mini bus
Every generation seems
To have it’s own thing to prove
I remember my hippie days
This chick was in the groove