’77 was seventh heaven
For adolescence and adoring girls,
Even though skirts were so low that Kevin
Could never spy a thigh when the wind whirled
Around their hems and through the mass of curls
They sprayed religiously in early morn,
While mirror-hunting spots like they were pearls,
Or fruit from which a sacred juice is born.
The Frisco gays, the disco daze, and porn.
The punks in GB and CBGB’s.
The jubilee when Union flags adorned
The streets of London and other cities.
The August sun obscured by crowded cloud,
I stayed in, made a din; played music loud.
Mon 20 Nov 2006
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