J. Allen Wilson Roasted Over an Open Pit, 

Hanging on a spit,

An apple in his mouth,

A ring in his nose,

Oh somebody go get the hose,

The fire is spreading; his ponytail is catching,

Watch out for the ties in his hair, yes the bows…

Dang hippies, they all ought to cook,

Some of them do, better than some women,

No I mean they should cook over an open fire,

Hanging like above on a spit, I am no liar,

Long haired hippie freaks, their time is past,

Why don’t they just give it up and retire?

I hope this hippy does not give it up,

His writing I mean, and photographing should win a cup,

Of coffee or soda at least, or maybe just a beer,

Learn will he therein, from drugs making him unclear,

I know that feeling, drugs I mean, as I am never anything but clear, isn’t that right dear?

So take from this roast what you will, I am not roasting these folks to awfully, that you can see clear,

Just a fun bit of a meal, made by me in my kitchen, roasting the pigs and the hippies together,

I don’t want to be hearin’ any bitchin’ and that should be taken most clear…

                                                © ed – 5/24/04