A poetry contest with such rules,
forbidding me to join.
A poetry contest for old fools,
to kick me in the groin.
It says to write about the past,
to pen of things not meant to last.
It says to write.
It says to write.
To write when old farts had a blast.
The seventies was yesterday,
so here is my debate:
I can’t believe the things they’d say:
“Peach, Farm Out, Out of State”
These hippy freaks would pop some pills
Then jump off buildings just for thrills.
These hippy freaks.
These hippy freaks.
And now they ban my writing skills.
Turn in, turn on and fry your brain
with flowers in your hair.
I know these fossils are insane
and don’t wear underwear.
Today you’ll find them at K-Mart,
they’ll ram you with their shopping cart.
Today you’ll find.
Today you’ll find.
You’ll find you’re banned by some old fart.
Adding your comment:
Flared jeans,white jeans, four inch healed boots (fuck I was tall during the seventies) lol strobe lighting, Disco, Rock concerts everywhere... wow flash back 
OK I'll get back in my rocking chair now don't fall over the Zimmer frame and where the fuck are my teeth 
with much love & light~ Desire~*~
Absolutely wonderful as always! You could almost...no, you could...sing it! 
