Come Together
We are rolling stones who groan.We have preyed on insolence. Satisfaction
is inaction. Pray for action. It is lasting.
Purposeful passion turns the wheel
that grinds the grain and thus remains
the harvest of impertinence. Apathy kills.
We are beatles who are stoned.
We have gunshots in our heads. Get back!
Take the lazy haze and unmask it.
Help! We need somebody. Help,
Make the world a better place. Imagine
All the people living without fear.
Fire! When will the gardens return?
There are rockets over our heads. Grateful Dead
Without a singer. Far too much death.
Mickey, Mickey you're so fine,
Come along and heal this time. Money.
There's another brick in the wall. That's All.
Honey, that's not everything. That wall's too tall.
We gotta get down with deep purple syrup.
Deep down in our souls, there are sounds to be found.
Smoke on the water; Fire in the sky.
Diggin' deep, losin' sleep, promises to keep.
Still the quitar gently weeps, times are a changin'.
Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly.
This is the re-arranging of our mystic psyches:
December 8, 1980, the day the music died.
Poetry by Kathy Lockhart
Read 626 times
Written on 2006-11-01 at 02:48
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