Saw a fading hippy propped up against the bar the other night; Well wasted, stinking to high heaven of herb and Four Roses. Sad, but then I put myself in his shoes…

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.’

©Obbverse