Maddened wasted screaming bulls Racing to the stage People are tripping over one another A song has begun No reason to get excited There is only mud everywhere Caused by torrential rain I'm on your shoulders Wringing it out of my hair Miles and miles of people Maybe three hundred thousand All doing their own thing And they chant to the music And dance if they can stand The hills are filled with plastic Housing for the rats There are even people naked Massaging themselves on tables For profit
Reason for writing:
Woodstock 2!
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by A. Bobowicz (aquarius).