We never made it to Woodstock, but we made it to McCrae/
Celebration of Life in south Louisiana in a swampy-sunshine haze/
Not enough food, not enough reefer, but plenty of LSD/
Tryin’ to cool off in the alligator bayou, and trying to be free.
Nekkid and stoned on the mighty Atchafalaya, rollin’ in the mud and lyin’ around/
All the answers that we wanted were hidin’ in the music, awaitin’ patiently to be found.
Fifty thousand people and ten port-potties, you had to stand long and wait/
The stink from those suckers would gag a can of maggots, but the talkin’ in line was great/
The bands were cool, we loved John Sebastian, they played sets all night long/
Fifty thousand hippies in the Louisiana swamplands, all sure that we weren’t wrong.
People got drowned and they got run over, the sunburn it was bad/
You better stay away from the purple haze acid, your trip will be so sad/
Forty years later, our hair’s short and grayer and here’s one thing that I know/
We’d do it all again in a New York second, those days of so long ago.
(Chorus; then chorus acapella and out)
Peace, dude ...