Barefoot hippies' Broadcast on the Streets

[Annona Synclair]

Crisp cool breeze, early mornin' haze,

and the tide's Rollin' in.

A Chirp, a peep, a doughnut glazed,

and I'm ready to take daylight for a spin.

Damn, sure is cold!

With sand between my toes

and a salt mist ridin' the wind.

"Hey, it's nice."

I'm told once or twice by a newfound friend.

Not like the guys I'm used to seein'

who sleep till noon at night

pickin' fights with men in tight blue suits,

and breakin' curfew again.

Most trippin' on LSD and shrooms

underneath a full moon saloon sign

all neon-like down in the city.

A happenin' place if you like chaos

and strife and a great night life

of sippin' down spiced rum

and munchin' brownies

till you're too goddamned happy to think.

Yeah, I've seen alot of good shit in my day,

Just walkin' down the beaches

drummin' away to an African beat.

Nubian queen,

all pressed and clean in her white gauze,

blessin' our drums and givin' applause

to those of us who can play worth a damn.

Not like them kids who like to come out some nights

wet behind the ears and chuggin' down beers

like there was no tomorrow gonna rise.

Oh, I remember those days

of keepin' beat with the waves

as they smacked hands with the shore

tradin' sand for seaweed.

Yea, an nth of crack for some gaunge.

I remember it well,

back when we were swellin' with pride

'bout who could get high and still stand

face to the sky, without gettin' lightheaded.

Instead of fallin' deep,

we were makin' love in our sleep

with no surprises or disguises

of ecstacy or TNT in cake and rum

that would leave cause for regret behind us.

Mornin' sun rises, intent to spy us

and burn our eyes and backs.

That's our cue, this day is through

till next session together finds us

spoutin' more rhymes for you.