Issue 47, Summer 1969
Ah well, I walk out into the road all fancied up.
I must admit I feel fine. But, you see,
A statement of this sort is misleading.
To say “I feel fine” is to assume
That a missing link looms in that feeling.
Ideally, one should liquidate that missing link.
I went by the white picket fence. Less
Than a day in paradise. Already I feel
The common light of the celestials around me.
I asked an angel, the prettiest that ever wore
Blonde hair, “Is there a cafe nearby, my Angel?”
He answered, “Down the road two miles.
The waitress there, I know her. She is very sweet.
I am sure she will want to take
A photograph of you. You are probably
The first boy with long hair she’s ever seen.”
In the restaurant, listening to C. C. Rider
On the juke box, I remembered that it was
Exactly two years previous that I wrote the song.
The prim waitress squeezed the shutter,
And my first impulse was to cover up what
I was thinking about. The Bighorn Mountains
Came up on the clouds. What fresh Wyoming air!
But let me return to what I was discussing earlier.
Too many people in the world fill up their time
Doing evil things. When I write
Sometimes I find it hard to assume their roles.
Surely I am an evildoer too. Where did I spend
Those 7 hours? I spent them in
Hollywood with you. Then I climbed
Up with my friends the breezy California coast.