Spawn Of Jim Morrison's Hips
Paul Cordeiro
My sixteen year old son,
wishes he could travel back to the sixties
to get his hands on some primo grass and free
hand grabs from groupies no doubt he's heard the music's beat
and driven down the same obvious bumpy road
that's washed out so many minds in our times
that his muddied Volkswagen bus still hasn't turned
the corner where women aren't cunts
and the muscular men he sees thumbing a ride up the ass
make him afraid to be pushed around, to take orders,
as he feels crushed under the wheels of them queers.
