Bullets Blare and Hippies’ Hair

Their guns blaze all bloody by the ginger sky,
firing beyond the confines of their eye.
Their battle cries rise over our hippie camps,
where tanks point, set, and fire on our lava lamps.

Two worlds collide with an epic jamboree;
the robots of war and palace of the free.
Their gunfire breaks through our music makers.
Our hillside camps tie-dyed through all the acres.

In our small camp shielded from their bombing raid,
our best defense is the love that is made.
With flowers in our eyes and hair in our face,
we chase off the hate with a glowing embrace.

By the fiery sun their war rages on.
Our campers dancing at the light of the dawn.
Their bullets blaze past our nimbly prancing feet,
caught of guard by our rhythmic essence so sweet.

Our hippie harpoons are just hibiscus plants.
No war codes or cries, simply acoustic chants.
We place our loyalty in each others hands,
instead of in tyrants that control the lands.

Our flowers are shields to the poison and bombs.
Nukes calmed by our clove incense and serene psalms.
With our peace and music so skillfully sung,
their sure to realize that it’s love that has sprung.

When the moon’s hidden by the their thick hazy smog,
we ride towards their camp dressed in organic fog,
and plant flowers in their gun barrels and tanks,
then await until morning to hear their thanks.

With what a surprise they will awake to find,
this evil helter skelter has all turned kind.
Their weapons will fire just music and love,
and instead of bombs petals fall from above.

With rainbows painted over straightly charts,
I’m sure love will bloom in their young dancing hearts.
The world will awake with a new peaceful sun,
singing to the world of how the hippies won.