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.

We soon got wind of of the crime: he wound up with a wound but weathered it fairly well, waiting for the affair to wind down while they wondered whether windy weather had played a role affecting the whole scene. The effect of the hole, (seen in court) was downplayed, read at the hearing as a likely red herring.

The jury, having heard, gave their verdict as a herd; unanimously.
(And, more famously, anonymously.) The infamously failed assassination set precedents for presidents as we asked, as a nation, to have safety take precedence over presidential presence, urging all residents to monitor their residence since shooters deft for lead could leave others left for dead indeed.

The casings were recovered, and the whole case covered by the press (though some journalists, pressed by the particulars of the case, cased out the possibility of covering close-up) until the case closed up.

55--is it the limit?
I’ve been slowing down, for sure.
Trying to economize, but my size
is growing.
No longer a tease; I’ve got bad knees.
I seize the day,
but please,
ask me if I prefer the elevator.
I might see you later--or not.
We can't count on tomorrow,
but I don't dwell in sorrow.
Now I hear more, see more,
even when I've lost my reading glasses. I know what life is for.
I grow things. I sing. Gladly
I do the dishes.
I have no birthday wishes. Wishes are for a future.  
I’ve removed things, and sewn a suture.
The way I was is history. That girl, with pretty shoes,
didn’t play the blues.
Now I listen, and I play those tunes.  
I’ve got no use for pretty, ‘cept for being pretty sure.
Sure, I've been wrong—wrong to wear those shoes, for one thing,
cuz my toes hurt.
Now, I know all the dirt. I’ve got things buried so deep
no one knows. But from the dirt, stuff grows.
I’m watering those plants, and wait til you see what springs up. Time ain’t up yet,
and there’s a green hill, and tall trees, and a sunset.

I weep for words that will not dance,
That will not float on wings of thought,
But only thud on solid ground

I weep for songs I cannot sing
The phrases buzz like happy bees
That sting me and then fly away

I weep for souls I cannot touch
With tenderness and hope
Because I reach with crippled hands

I weep for gifts I cannot share
The addressee is marked “unknown”
And it comes back all soiled and torn

I weep because it’s all I know
When nothing blooms from what I plant
And barren soil is all I have to til
ljm

You saw me as a fool, a child
And treated me as such.
I claimed mine was an icy heart
Yet melted with one touch.
So much alike, you knew me
And I hated that you could see
The man behind the stony mask
The truth, as it may be.

I loved you steeped in silence
from the corner of my eye.
You knew I was a hopeless mess
My composure was a lie,
Yet you approached with velvet hand,
I must have looked like an antique-
But you lifted layers of death and dust
from the truth, or so to speak.

You wouldn't let me hide my eyes,
The light you made me see.
And broken lies and alibis
Against your ears failed me.
The ****** know no frustration
Like an actor with no role;
You stripped my ruse away to see
The truth, or so I'm told.

I'm full of love and resentment
The world is just a pill
Stuck in my throat, belaying notes
That when sung come out shrill
But you're on top, where you belong,
Such anathema received
You refuse me my bitter outlook
at the truth, as it's believed.

I'll never be your hero,
It isn't in my soul.
I cannot be a guiding light
I lack the self-control
But I cannot spend another day
Believing we're both dead
I drag my lifeless body towards
The truth, or so it's said.

Through the bottom of this bottle
I can see you oh, too clearly
The lights come up, and curtains draw
On something cherished dearly
And as the world files out-
all around us wave goodbyes-
And the two of us are left alone
with the truth, and other lies

I loved you from a distance
from the corner of your eye
You never cared I was a mess
You knew that I would lie,
Still somewhere in the stormy night
we held each other warm and tight-
and learned more than we thought we could
about the truth, and wrong and right

Now, I miss the part of me
that could barely speak
And the part of you that handled me
Like a fool, a child so weak.
A contorted little memory
of what we shared is all
That I still hold of your life and times,
It's the truth, as I recall.