They call it hippie, they say radical in the late 1950’s witches brew of conservatism
All I can hear is terror.
All I can hear is fear.
Charlie can you hear me, I’m calling you.
Charlie this drinks for you…
The governments mime action, the people demand justice
The crowds march but who are the victims here?
Those that stand for what they believe in
They are gone now, wasted by the true animals
Wasted by the violence
Can you hear me Charlie,
This drinks for you.
Mellow beats jive my soul, force my mind to shake down intent on a treaty between grinding and swaying of smooth hips, sliding hands and wet lips. We will try and keep these secrets between us and arrange to dance another day.
My mind is four blanket walls against the wind. Thoughts traps in only to ask “where the hell you been?”… I trap Jell-O shots with gaping toothy grins, swallow them whole and ask for more medicine mr. In for a penny, in for a … Good time. Call. The numbers are scrolled down the arms of lost lovers tattooed in the words “Stay” but I should go now. If I stay there will be