(1) In the 67s I walked up a hill beneath LA.
I smelled the grass ans I listened to pot‘d music:
I woke up in a big tin can an I knew:
I killed my stomach!
None else could‘ve done it.
But n‘ertheless I stood up and I walked around
that big violet farm with the yellow roof.
I killed my pipe and it went to Nirwana in a big pink cloud.
 
(2) The next day I stood behind the guys from CIA
and I told them to let them peaceful hippies besides.
They oughta go home and play with their wives within their beds.
And as I was Lyndon B., they salutated and went away.
 
I marched down to Vietnam
and told our super-patriots
to act like those from the CIA.
But the only mistake I made was in their heads.
They killed me, because I was Mahatma.
 
(3) I dreamed I wasthe Mary Juana
Martin Luther King was playin‘ with
and I felt good.
 
(4) Once upon a time
I was a little poet
with my brain full of good ideas and idealistic phantasies.
I was at the believe
everyone could go his way,
live his life
and be what he wanna be.
But every fallin‘ leaf killed an inch of my brain.
 
When I was young
my brain was an ocean of power
a mountain of strength
and a lake of beauty.ß But everyone‘s on too put an ounce of
the sand the still changin‘ moon is droppin‘ out into my poor head.
11.11.1975  
 
- Epilogue -  
A sand coloured wolf barks for France.
 
Camping birds bite branch-formed butterflies.
 
She sleeps by my side
and above all dances a radio
pouring its chaotic news‘n‘views into the heads
of little curly-haired french kiddies
too young for that kind of
sentimental, weary, world-knowing look
that is in their eyes.
 
I‘m the fifty-first looking for the station with the right sound.
 
Camping on a camp-o-camping
feeling like an unpeeled orange with the wrong colour
but the right feeling
non else in France has.
 
Looking back into the tides of my futures
I see the lands of milk and honey.
They promise me a horizon of silver and light.
 
A violet cannonball leads me
to a double-controlled twin racer
above all clouds eva seen.
20.6.1976