Monday, September 06, 2010

Not Exactly Don't Stop Believin '


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 ...

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