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Our tribute to the eighteen year old boys who were sent to Viet Nam
Was to be chill, chillin, and chillax’in as a tribute to those soon gone.
We were groov’n, and groovy, beatnik style, but we called ourselves hippie. 
We were funky, groovy, and pretty nifty, copacetic, stoked, and thrifty. 

Wearing our hip hugger bellbottoms, our flowered shirts and necklaces too.
Traveled the country in VWs, singing folk songs with a home fry or two.
The true hippies ran to Berkley when they left their parents’ crib.
Lucky to find shagged carpeting, pet rocks. Stoked with each other, glib.

Seventies amazing, pretty out-of-sight, our threads lasted night after night.
Fab time for us whether we were dorks, dudes, foxy mamas, putzes so bright. 
Getting the low down was a bummer, but flower power was alive all summer.
Did not feel the need to rip anyone off, shared love with each newcomer.

Learned some stuff about ourselves in these days of lava lamp and Woodstock.
We could give each other skin, and keep on trucking, sharing a bong or a rock.
When boys returned from Viet Nam I am not sure they spoke the same way.
Many of the survivors put soldiers down which was an ignorant, mean play.

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