April 8th,1971

Who would've ever thought that with such style and flare
you'd one day have trouble pissing.
All those barbecues you've attended and this
is the thanks you get.
Old age.
Here it is.
It's something you just can't tell people about.
No one wants to know anyhow.
There's that one day when the mirror
seems to lose it's luster.
You're not as quick to jump in the cameras' way.
You still remember the long lines
outside of those rockin'

hot spots, crisp, clean sheets and

your finger on the pulse.

Then, here they come to take your place.
The gliding knights of savoir faire.
The prettiest people you've ever seen.

They all have fresh ideas
and fire in their eyes.
Their hairspray smells of
fresh strawberries and the backseats
of lovers that have lost
themselves along the way.
They zip by as you understand.
They're fast.
They know exactly where they're going.
To a place where you're no longer welcome.
To a place in rolling hills and burning sun.

"You are here", says the directory in the park.
They say that youth is wasted on the young
and I couldn't agree more.


Ray Strickland jr.

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