The path is willowed,
yet it is not a willowed path,
for what it is,
it is surely not.
What we see,
is not what is,
for what is,
we do not see.
Life is all great trickery.

The person is born,
The person is still unknown,
The person has died.

The victors use me,
I'm the assistant to thought,
People call me pen.

Soon it will arrive,
the day we meet our demise,
the day of true peace.

The seed of joy is now gone,
the men on top trying too hard,
just let the drink hold,
and let everyone taste the drink of gold.

The men up top have not done that,
driving the great drug away,
thinking they are doing right,
oh how they don’t posses great sight.

New distributers have come around,
the uppers oblivious to all,
basically letting the drink hold,
oh how I love the taste of gold.

I think the top believes they won,
but I hope they realize what they did,
crimes of innocence now arise,
the marvelous drink I do not despise.

The saga ends with fault,
new people come here to supply,
men living in the wretched clink,
all because of the golden drink.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing
on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing
as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning,
or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—
or of the girl sewing or washing—Each singing what belongs to her,
and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

November 22/1963,
the day remembered in infamy,
a great man vanished,
Camelot was banished.

He rode in a deathly motorcade,
one where history was made.
Cheers deafened the mass,
he was shot by an outcast.

His smile charmed his people,
nobody was his equal.
His slick hair swayed in the Texas air,
he would soon have a new heir.

His convertible top was down,
his waves controlled the town.
His presence was tremendous,
the shot was stupendous.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK,
two shots made contact,
his head burst in two,
the question was, who?

Head in lap, Jackie cried,
her eyes wet like low tide.
Men in black rushed to the car,
the shooter now afar.

Rushed to the hospital in haste,
the air possessed a bad taste.
The news was all about,
his life very much in doubt.

Hours passed with slow pace,
peoples tears burned like mace.
A country was without a head,
LBJ is the man they said.

Finally the time had come,
the news startling none,
JFK is dead! JFK is dead!
The people mourned in dread.

The age of youth was out,
times of havoc were about,
JFK is dead! JFK is dead!
The country is still in dread.