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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem