By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

In an antiquated walk-up
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.

His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don’t be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.

Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.

His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.

She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her *******.
So many men had fun with those.

He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.

The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses  blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.

Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.

Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.

Grumpy cat has shuffled off of this immoral coil.
For years he was my favorite meme; my most favorite  foil.
He had a constipated look, a near perennial scowl.
He was a cat that didn't purr, In truth I think he growled.
He had a most unpleasant mien.
A most unpleasant stare.
This tabby has checked out for good,
Don't ask me if I care.

When I was little, as a general rule,
I’d hide neath the covers on days meant for school.
I’d lounge in pajamas all day; I swore that I would.
Mom said:” I let you sleep as long as I could!”

So I’d have to get up.   I’d pretend to be sore.
“Surely you could have let me sleep five minutes more!”
Then the sizzle of bacon and the scent of the same
Convinced me my protests would all be in vain.

“I let you sleep as long as I could.”
I disputed this always, but it did me no good.
Though I may be lazy to my spiritual core
Mom always had ways to get me out the door.

First Grade school, then High School, then College –the same,
I always awoke to that dreaded refrain.
I’ll roll out of my rack to the cold bedroom floor
Always swearing I could have slept five minutes more.

Now I am old and I wake to an alarm.
Daylight floods in and the radio is on.
I have a snooze button- should I wish to snore
That would happily let me sleep five minutes more.

But that would be cheating, not how I was raised
So I always get up. To my Mom goes the praise
She made me responsible; you see I turned out good-
because she let me sleep just as long as she could.

I thought to arm myself against seas full of trouble,
but my every effort  was doomed  to fail and caused my woes to double.
Let this be a lesson that I should proceed with caution
Because these days slings and arrows cost an outrageous fortune

The Millennium Falcon seems empty now
with no one in your chair.
Though you had a tendency to shed
I didn't mind, I swear.

Your presence was always comforting.
I took courage in your growl.
I might even have understood you,
if I could only buy a vowel.

Leia is waiting for you now
to take you by the (?) hand
Off you go now together
to the moons of Alderan.

So may the Force be with you, friend,
though mortal bonds now sever.
Take solace that we hold you close
in memory forever

“It is time” the Priest said.  I nodded, being well prepared.
My last confession had been heard, as well as my unanswered prayers.
Tom Clarke and Tom Mac Donagh would, shortly, join me in the yard,
where a line of British Soldiers would dispatch us off to God.

The light, grey and uncertain, the air was cold and raw.
A plain grey concrete wall would be the last thing that I saw.
My hands secured behind my back; a blindfold on my eyes.
A sacrifice both right and proper; for Ireland I will die.

I’d dreamt of an Ireland brave and free. To that I did aspire.
I hear the bolts of their enfields click and their captain shouted “FIRE