harry and ron and hermione

what’s in your pocket

oh gandy dancer

oh pants romancer

jimmy and robert

tomorrow would swear

as they knock back

the evening air

it’s lemon juice

running down your leg

but say baba sai it

be soma the

liquid of moonlight

it’s like man a

grenade went off

i was down in the

bunker with fred

astair and for a

portkey of hours

and a old

lambseativy tune

he taught me

all he knew

(though she was

tight like edith

bunker style kind

of dancing not

them phatt target

tables fulla soks

and lonjeray)

i had some pot

that i grew

in the mountains

and i got stoned

wilst fred went phoned

aldous too late

he was thru the door

thru the portal

with a barely audible

cosmic chortle

you’d think it’s bugs

of late summer

but only soma

in the afternoon

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply