The Hippy’s Lament
Hear this poem read aloud at Radio Ryedale
‘You are old, Mother mine,’ was my dear son’s remark,
And your hair should be turning quite white,
But you spend lots of money on keeping it dark.
Do you think at your age it is right?’
‘In my youth, my dear boy’, I replied with disdain,
‘My long hair was my pride and my joy.
It was shiny and straight. It hung down to my waist.
Was that question designed to annoy?’
‘You are old, Mother mine and, with limited means,
Should be wearing nice twin sets and tweed.
Yet you wander around in rope sandals and jeans
Like a poster for Hippies in Need?’
‘In my youth, precious son, I’d the freedom to choose
Berber kaftans and carved wooden beads;
Smocks made of cheesecloth, henna tattoos
And long strings of dried melon seeds.’
‘You are old, Mother mine. Do you think you should still
Live on Indian food and drink wine?
Either stomach or liver could easily kill you
Next time you step over the line.’
‘In my youth, irksome child, I ate prawn vindaloo
And smoked pot every time I was able
And I’m reasonably confident, looking at you,
I could still drink you under the table.’
‘You are old, Mother mine. Do you think that you should
Play that music late into the night?
It is raucous, it’s tuneless, it’s simply no good.
Please keep your LPs out of sight.’
‘Out of sight was a tribute before I gave birth,
When Ginsberg and Dylan were gods.
I danced at the Round House and in Middle Earth,
So will you stop shouting the odds!’
‘You are old, Mother mine.Is that thick racy book
The sort of thing you should be reading?
At your age you’d be better off taking a look
At designs for the shawl you’ll be needing.’
‘Silly boy, do you really think that could shock me,
One of the free love generation,
Who danced naked at Woodstock and then hugged a tree,
When flowers, not war, rocked the nation?’
‘You are old, Mother mine, and I don’t like the sound
Of the holiday that you’ve just planned.
A nice organized coach trip would take you around
And find you a nice bit of sand.’
‘So far I’ve bitten my lip, but that’s quite enough.
Will you please now get out of my hair!
I’m not going to listen all day to this stuff.
Damn it! I’m younger than Cher.
I’ll find my own sand and it will be somewhere hot,
Where the wine and music flow freely.
I might decide to come back, but then I might not!
I’ll send you a postcard. Yes, really!’