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I was taking in the Haight
with a guest from L.A.
Wearin underwears
like a hat on my head.
The spirit of the sixties
was all around
From high on Hippie Hill
we surveyed the sacred ground.
Covering hallowed ground.
Well, I was South of the Slot
by closing time
My black leather chaps
afloat the crystalline tide.
I wheelied down an alley
that shined with lube
Checked the ghost of Sylvester
by the light of the man on the moon.
Covering hallowed ground.
When daybreak broke
I hit the beach but found no sand,
though Saints Peter and Paul
were close at hand.
A screamer bared his knife
and drew a fleet of Black and Whites -
a book he d written, way back when,
had changed my life.
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