Two Scores And Seven After Woodstock (An Afterlight Poem) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

The punk was lit, the lights befell
o'er circles of mindlessness.
Country Joe, Cocker and Jimi Who?
Baiting Fish with good cheer
and a dime of Acapulco,
in a concourse of slow strangeness,
tho' the musique was totally 'Boss'!
Threee-hundred K, sat in the rain
laying their candles down for the light
to be shed on the night, while Yasgur-
slept atop of his house on the hill.

He'd be one-hundred and twenty five,
If Max and his cattle were still alive;
and Hendrix...would be seventy-three,
as would Joplin, Moon and Entwistle be.
So, where the * * * * was Timothy Leary,
and, how did he make it just shy of eighty?

Isn't Life Strange, moody, and blue
Crosbys' still having his Deja-vu's.
Amazing he's breathing without a tube.


FjR-MMXVI