A Wandering Mountain Hippie
I swear to god I change my journal every single time I update. I'm never satisfied!!!! I would have to rate this day probably a 7-8. It was a pretty damn good day for a Thursday if I do say so meself. Ditched 5th, went to Taste of Philly with Anna, Brian and Dylan, and it's always cool to hang out with those two. Then we went to the park and smoked a black which was also very relaxing. Although right now I have a bit of a gray cloud hovering over my head ever since I said some pretty bitchy things to one of my friends, and I think I alienated him, and that makes me really sad after all the work I had put in to trying to be his friend... :p I'm gonna have to apologize to him, poor buddy. But alas, anyone that knows me pretty well knows that the filter that should be between my brain and my mouth broke back when I was 13, and my insurance doesn't cover that. But on an upnote, I've been keeping in touch with Yuli!!!!!!! yay!!!!! I love her to death. TO DEATH!!!! And now on to the real reason why I actually posted. I've got two new poems, which are actually a joint work between Tim, Eric, and I, and anyone in Brit Lit would have heard these, but I like 'em so here they are in all their glory.
A wandering mountain hippie
A mellow fellow just under fifty
He wears a poncho that he found
It is stained with dirt, because he sleeps on the ground
He climbs the mountains with no lag
For in his pouch he has some crazy mountain swag
Every night you see him tokin'
Then he will be jammin' on his guitar; strokin'
He plays some stellar songs, like "The Monkey Prance"
That will often make his mountain friends get up and dance
He carries a stick, and on the end is a sack
He walks all day with this on his back
Contained inside his most precious possessions lie
From his Phish t-shirt, to his dream catcher supply
To make his way he sells dream catchers
Everyone buys them, even teh lepers
He is a scruffy fellow, unshaven with curly hair
And his eyes are glazed over like Smokey the Bear
When he meets a person, he always makes a friend
He sits them right down to smoke some of his crazy mountain blend
Back in the '70's he followed the Dead
Some people travelled by bus, but he travelled by moped
All in all, he is jammin' and he is chill
If you ever see him, he is sure to wish you good will
This is a story about me and a man named Bill
We sold dream catchers together, but he would never chill
We were good buddies, but he would always stress
He would always hold back our dream catcher progress
Without money we could not get into the show
And every time I missed the Dead it felt like a fatal blow
Well one night we spent all of our money on beads
And we had no moneyh for the show that was about to proceed
Bill started to freak out and get really mad
I just mellowed out, and started making catchers with our doodads
Then I sold three catchers and half of our stash
It made us some money, about 35 cash
Twenty-five more and we would be in
To find some money we started looking in trash bins
At that time Bill went on a rampage
He was freaking out so much that he belonged in a cage
I decided to stick with my friend
We would be in this to the end
I told him that I knew a way to sneak in
We would just have to cut a fence made of tin
Bill and I crept through the fence
We both went right in and saved some cents
At that point Bill freaked out and dropped dead
I didn't know what to do, so I kept on truckin' and fled
I jammed for hours and into the night
I had an awsome time, but Bill and I would never reunite
It was sad to see him go
But if you are a hippie, you should know
Always be chill and don't hurry
It will always work out, never worry.
A wandering mountain hippie
A mellow fellow just under fifty
He wears a poncho that he found
It is stained with dirt, because he sleeps on the ground
He climbs the mountains with no lag
For in his pouch he has some crazy mountain swag
Every night you see him tokin'
Then he will be jammin' on his guitar; strokin'
He plays some stellar songs, like "The Monkey Prance"
That will often make his mountain friends get up and dance
He carries a stick, and on the end is a sack
He walks all day with this on his back
Contained inside his most precious possessions lie
From his Phish t-shirt, to his dream catcher supply
To make his way he sells dream catchers
Everyone buys them, even teh lepers
He is a scruffy fellow, unshaven with curly hair
And his eyes are glazed over like Smokey the Bear
When he meets a person, he always makes a friend
He sits them right down to smoke some of his crazy mountain blend
Back in the '70's he followed the Dead
Some people travelled by bus, but he travelled by moped
All in all, he is jammin' and he is chill
If you ever see him, he is sure to wish you good will
This is a story about me and a man named Bill
We sold dream catchers together, but he would never chill
We were good buddies, but he would always stress
He would always hold back our dream catcher progress
Without money we could not get into the show
And every time I missed the Dead it felt like a fatal blow
Well one night we spent all of our money on beads
And we had no moneyh for the show that was about to proceed
Bill started to freak out and get really mad
I just mellowed out, and started making catchers with our doodads
Then I sold three catchers and half of our stash
It made us some money, about 35 cash
Twenty-five more and we would be in
To find some money we started looking in trash bins
At that time Bill went on a rampage
He was freaking out so much that he belonged in a cage
I decided to stick with my friend
We would be in this to the end
I told him that I knew a way to sneak in
We would just have to cut a fence made of tin
Bill and I crept through the fence
We both went right in and saved some cents
At that point Bill freaked out and dropped dead
I didn't know what to do, so I kept on truckin' and fled
I jammed for hours and into the night
I had an awsome time, but Bill and I would never reunite
It was sad to see him go
But if you are a hippie, you should know
Always be chill and don't hurry
It will always work out, never worry.