They’ll come in giggling and singing the tune,
Looking like wild women from the local saloon,
Then sexy, sultry they will slouch,
Their liquid forms adorn my couch.
They’ll giggle endlessly at Oprah,
Sing requiems for the stone cold sober,
Who may not understand our bliss,
For an outside world that does not exist.
Tell Dylan we will not forget,
His claims not to be an advocate,
But contemplate our best laid plans,
And assume he understands.
But tell Fogerty of an afternoon euphorious,
We’ve seen the rain and it is glorious.