I once thought
we would leave Brooklyn
and travel across America
in a chariot.
An awesome, red,
'67 Lincoln convertible,
with suicide doors.
Radio blasting Jefferson Airplane.
Hair blowing in the wind.
Soaking up the sunshine.
Breathing freedom.
No watches, jobs or boss.
Stopping at Howard Johnson's.
Eating all 28 ice cream flavors,
one stop at a time and
fried clams by the bushel.
We were San Francisco dreaming.
'67 brought
responsibility, stability,
Timex watch,...
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