A disastrous campaign in bohemia

In a gutted outside broadcast van,
we set off for the Altamont Speedway,
throwing ash trays to the wind
– set ‘em free, Maria, set ‘em free –
and rode unwelcomed in to Livermore,
a city with it sons at war, took off
our shirts and played hacky sack
on their fundamental lawns,
got sunburnt and called it napalm,
said we were brothers and sisters.

I made love to Maria in the Berkeley
fountain, let our bodies send
a message, let our mouths tend
our bodies. When the summer was over
and Charlie Manson had made us look
like weaklings, we retuned our wired sets.
The hopes we hosted began to fade
like weather we couldn’t recall;
the school friends we heard were dead
seemed even cooler now.