Sixty Eight You Are Kidding
Sixty-eight! What the heck. I look in the mirror and see another me.
I am twelve inside. Can’t anyone else see?
My sense of humor is hilarious just like it always was.
I am young at heart; I still run from the fuzz.
I am a giant cuddly peace-loving hippie, who did not make it to Woodstock.
I would have but my parents would not allow it; which I think was a crock.
I was in high school then. I should have gone to Berkley.
But I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, so stayed home. Was still perky.
I want to tiptoe through the tulips, catch a ride with a communal VW van.
Painted with yellow happy faces, bubbly daisies and a peace-sign hand.
I will play a ukulele and sing folk songs louder and happier than Mama Cass.
Look at my face, my friend. Sixty-eight. Come on! I am a 17-year-old lass!
I see my eyes are fading. Arthritis makes me limp a bit when I walk.
But inside I am 19, a real beauty, with a heart that doesn’t squawk.
Sixty-eight. You’re kidding! At the most I am twenty-two or twenty-five.
I lived through assassinations, bombings, Viet Nam. It’s amazing I’m alive!
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