Joint Enterprise

At Woodstock rock rolls heavy round
the hill, as, Jimmy Hendrix style,
the stars and strikes of battlefield,
with copter crews from cotton fields,
the pickin strings by singing flag,
that guitar falls on silent field.

The food they found, shared sixty fold
beyond the Galilean hill;
those hickey folk said sons the same,
won’t have them starve, enjoying selves,
though most their lads had Nam and eggs,
their will, to share joint exercise.