A Visit from the Man

'Twas the eve of next Woodstock, when all through the house
not a hippie was stirring, not even a louse.
The peace pipes were laid on the table with care,
in hopes that some choice herb soon would be there.

The free-lovers nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of water bongs danced in their heads.
My unwashed old lady with natty dreadlocks
Slept with a deathgrip on her little pillbox.

When out on the porch there arose such a clatter
I jumped up in the buff to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
With fog in my brain from a toke of bad hash.

The moon blinded me, and I started to flail
Like a hopped-up Ms. Keller reading her Braille.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But the whole police force and their cold riot gear.

With a big megaphone, so lively and quick,
Their chief called us out, each stoned Bolshevik.
More rapid than sour-mash goes through my spare frame
He whistled and shouted, and called us by name:

"Now Moon-Unit! Dweezil!
And Sweet Passion Flower!
And anyone else
With scant mental power!
From the top of the porch!
To the cramped jail cell!
Right after the firehose
Saves us from your smell!"