Jars remind the kind that smoke
Greenish clouds of skunk-ish hope
Lemon colored ribbon cutter
Imagine as if Lennon uttered.
The porcupine Doctor with minimal vision
We now have mustered effort
For the forming of our
Beloved vagabond Peasant Club
A pleasant hub with beach regalia
Where records play on Sandy Players
We play 'Moon Dog' and then 'Mahalia'
In amber gangster paraphernalia
Those we've dumped in love endeavors
Claiming to be ours forever...
Tat for tit thou calm inventions
Marketed for common vengeance
Mta bus Compton Benches
Or beneath the London Bridges
Must we all dissolve in difference?
As Excedrin’s in Merlot
Infrared the canon's fragrance
Or the Doc with jarred prescriptions
It’s so clear to see no difference
When we've had the Doctor's smoke.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (“Medi-Cal Babes” by Charles Monroe )
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