The smoke in their hand, a sign of strength,
The alcohol high once a week, a must.
Their morals are not in the least bit bent,
On their conscience, they lay full trust.
The breed of this kind are made to go far,
Their attributes, too long to list.
You might find them at a disco or a bar,
Or on a hillside in the mist.
What they do there is another story-
Weed, Cigarettes, cocaine and acid.
Constantly finding new forms of glory,
New found ways of being placid.
A look at him and you would know that he is one,
The tattoos, piercing, red eyes, et al.
He’d get the money because he was Mr Rich’s son,
Mr Rich, unaware of his inevitable fall.
But having a boy like him for a son is a boon,
How precious and thoughtful and kind he is.
He’d make you feed him out of golden spoon,
And then curse you under his breath and give you a kiss.
It must be cool to smoke a joint,
It must be fun to screw up.
I am not even trying to make a point,
Just thinking of the world in which I grew up.