Oh hippie chick,
My Mountain Laurel,
Is that you standing
On sacred soil
Beside your weathered
Volkswagon Bus,
My eyes are weak
I do not trust.
The times have changed
We can smoke weed, ;
So pass that pipe;
I still have the need;
It's not for me,
But for my glaucoma;
I was going blind
In Oklahoma;
You still look good
In your gingham dress;
You're looking good
I must confess;
It's me your Man
Your Highway Jack
With his sleeping bag
And his heavy pack;
You picked me up
Outside Santa Fe;
Girl that was
My lucky Day;
Your van was full
Of flowered shirts,
On hangers hung
With Tie-died skirts
Your brown hair knotted
Above perfect ears
From which dangled
Silver spears;
You still have
That Gibson guitar,
Which you played
In cowboy bars;
It blows my mind
This is so weird
I look down the road
And you appear
In your huffing, puffing
Volkswaagon van;
Remember me?
'I wanna hold your hand.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem