Woorden: Greg Brown. Beatniks Gonna Rise Again.

Busted our conga, rusted out Dodge,
California dreamin' of an international hodgepodge.
An old roach in the ashtray, a closed sidewalk cafe,
A saxophone in pieces, a moth-eaten beret.

A little bird told me, I heard it on the wind,
All of them old beatniks, ah they're gonna rise again.
Daddy-o and mommy-o, kiddie-o and me,
To a beat cool city landscape in the key of E.

Where all our styles of poetry will leap right off the page,
And ride upon a hi-igh lonesome riff across the stage.
Our lovers will meet us mysteriously in rainy night hotels,
And we'll all be always traveling, sometimes under spells.

Oh praise the battered sunflower, grows in the Kwik Trip lot,
Ah, we'll all get naked in little pairs, and we'll get so loose and so hot.
We'll troop across the country; bring joy to the Midwest,
Redesign our houses to the shape of a gentle breast.

And we'll laugh away the government; we'll laugh away the years,
When we get tired of laughing away, ah, we'll taste each other's tears.
We'll taste the cool spring water and learn where it can be found,
We'll take a little taste of everything, and we'll hand the knowledge down.

A little bird told me, I heard it on the wind,
All of them old beatniks, ah they're gonna rise again.
Daddy-o and mommy-o, kiddie-o and me,
To a beat cool city landscape in the key of ecstasy