Bohemian Grove Poem by Mark Nichols

A friend of mine lives on the Russian River
They were lazily floating down the river on inner-tubes
They spied old men in shorts wading in the river
Playing like children
Kicking water
Designing new countries
Whistling at each other
Fat old men, not well-kept

Curious, my friends paddled closer
My long-haired friends
It was the land of the grateful dead, you know

'Micky! ' the old men cried
'Micky Hart, come over! '

So my friends did paddle over
Though they sure as hell weren't Micky Heart

Rich old men who trade power like records
Love the Grateful Dead and find comfort knowing
That some of them live around there
I know it makes no sense
But I've found it to be true in almost every case

[Backstage passes, please? ]
Don't you know who I am?
I can make sure you never play in this town again

It's not hard to pretend to be an icon
Really, not as hard as you think
Like the ritual of the old owl
Like the cremation
It's all ceremony
We are all fat old men
Who trade power like records 'til the end