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