In the tranquil death camps
of take-a-number rest homes, we've
always had a code of conduct and
a waiting list that goes on
and on.
We took in your hippies
with their sandal sores,
and drum circle hips,
(the peace-pipe love
had mostly worn away
leaving rough coughs
and wrinkled hands.)
We called it communes -
and had them string
bright beads and fashion
far-out paper flowers.
At night we'd come
bearing bong water drips
and following the code
they went with peace (,man)
limping barefoot into the
paisley purple haze.
But these disco kings and divas
are coming with their own code
of tight pants and short dresses,
with there hang'n, and groov'n,
and sparkling disco balls.
How many backatcha fakeouts
and foxy, funk bunny tales
of cocaine threesomes (can we dig it),
before some cool
cat wheezer is stuffing
the new girls undies in
his oxygen mask, and breathing
like he means it.
We'll come at night
with our tray of chill-pills
and tubular salves
promising to ease the edge,
only to find the swish of skirts
and stiletto heel's slick
clacking down the hall
moving to the living beat and
keeping us up late with their
staying alive,
staying alive.
