In those days wearing beards
was an arrestable offence.
Hair was gelled back rigid,
and the only value recognized
as worth your time was money.
It was a cookie cutter age.
Even music was all synthesised
to squeeze the human out.
That’s why they beat the shit
out of the hippies at the Solstice.
We’d wanted a free festival
at Stonehenge on the longest day.
We drove buses there from anywhere
that life had left the land.
Thirteen hundred cops attacked
six hundred rainbow travellers,
smashing up our heads and buses,
throwing pregnant women on the ground,
and terrifying kids.
One threw a fire extinguisher at me.
Thank fuck his arm was weak.
A reporter for the tv news
declared it police brutality.
It was a clear move by the government
against the counterculture,
whose love of drugs and bright clothes,
whose preposterously wild hair,
might offer an alternative
to the pile of gold they sat on
that they'd stolen from the poor.
But you know what? Margaret Thatcher’s dead.
And most of her government are dead.
And the chief of police in Wiltshire, dead.
I want to know his secret
if he’s not, the vicious bastard.
They’re gone. But I’m still standing here.
My beard is even longer than it was then,
and my heart’s unchanged.
I’m freerer than the Wiltshire wind
that blows around those ancient stones.
It’s just my bones that slow me up these days
especially when it’s cold!