End Of The Hippy Dream. When I finally take my last shot, Knock back that final tot of gut-rot, Line up that last toot and blow the lot... Though mine's a wasted life, swift forgot Remember this when laying out this old sot: Lay me 'neath a cool chill spot, I fear too soon I'll be smokin' hot- Plant some fragrant herb, a little pot? Pop in a few wild poppies as a forget-me-not, Some grassy rolling field; make mine a fitting plot.
‘Love these smoke-tinted glasses.’