MAD GENERATION
You say she's mad For her blouse runs after her skirt As she chase the air talking all alone, No, to those we couldn't see, Those in the spirit she can see. When troubles of life, happiness Takes you to the beer parlour Where you drink to stupor And fall on the floor, Your son is shamed In the gutter where you snore, Yet you say you are not mad. When your rent is due And employers seek you to sue, When life crumbled on you And your spouse deserted you You talk your thoughts out all alone, Like her who chase the air alone. Yet you say you are not mad. When your private part is posed publicly In the outfit which you wear, You tip-toe like a mouse hunter in your high shoes, On your head is a dirt fit for debris, You brush and slap it as you walk, Turning all reflections to mirrors. An act too insane for the mad, Yet you say you are not mad. When springs are in your ears And you sing and dance all alone Without