Diving into the purple sea of acid hot and sweet

The manifold colored canopies, John Lennon’s heated treat

And if perchance on some little psychedelic street

His majestic presence I should conjure-up and meet


I would bow low and kiss his feet most willingly

For he is my English King; I am his servant free

The pulsating electric sounds fill me with glee

They ignite, excite, and I move most exuberantly


Through lanes of pennied plenty that shimmer in the dark

Afternoon of sultry sun redolent with the spark

Of waves of sound that mesmerize and never miss their mark

To that fevered clarion call my heart will always hark


The Royal Court of England is alive, it thrives, it’s well

Despite Charles and Di and that silly, self-made hell

Its scepter is no gilded stick that pirouettes pell mell

But a guitar weeping gently with strange words it needs to tell


But soon those Guitars of glory will no longer cry

Instead the sound will surge and to our delight defy

The crass and coarse commercial sorts who thieve and always


And saturate our ears with talk of what money can buy


Belting-out the Beauty of Byron, Shelly and Keats

A beat of riot and revelry triumphantly repeats

Like ocean waves crashing and smashing old defeats

The seventies and eighties, those dastardly retreats


The foam atop ocean waves screams like a teenage girl

Riding on resplendent waves in a concert’s wondrous whirl

The banners, bands and bombast will furiously unfurl

And we will all be swept up in a vast Stawberried Swirl


Copyright, David Gottfried, 1995


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