Thirty five years ago I was seventeen
Having smoked a huge joint, I stumbled upstairs
Anesthetized, I sat down at the upper-white-middle-class blood-bath,
Nobody noticed my reddened eyes or sneer, or lack of slaughter celebration
Kindred spirits bandied about on both flanks, my furrowed brow intensely taught
Should we all sit here silent, while napalm is dropped on the Vietnamese?
God help us, if only I could speak my mind
I wanted to make a point, perhaps we could re-examine our American way,
Vying for attention, craving to be seen and heard, I whistled and clapped
I stated I would not eat a morsel, we're heretics; we should be ashamed
Not for another moment should we carry on this way, condoning savagery
"Good fucking night," my father responded, "Are you stoned again?"