It's been half a century since the 60s, and all the Summer of Love ideals promised by Ginsberg and Kesey, by Leary and Hendrix, The Beatles, The Stones, The Dead and The Doors have still failed to materialise. Who would have thought that a group of talented people on acid and pot would have failed to bring about social revolution? If they failed, should we give up? Hell, no. All we need is a rousing anthem to galvanise all hippies everywhere. This, with apologies to The Last Poets, is my attempt to write one. Read it aloud. On street corners, if you must:
When the revolution comes the best minds of my generation will be freed from madness, crying hysterical giggles, floating through the blissed-out streets at dawn, looking for an open kebab and head shop that sells magic mushroom pizza when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes poems and youtube clips will take the place of guns and rifles. Hippy Cultural Centres will be forts supplying the revolutionaries with roach material and brightly coloured machine tools when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes it WILL be televised, but we'll all be watching Python re-runs and anyways nobody will be arsed to find the remote control and we'll probably just catch it later on iPlayer when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes every gaudy green golf course will be turned to a purple haze pot plantation and the only stocks being traded on the market will be McVities and Rizla when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes Jesus Christ himself will be standing stoned and blood-shod beside the crumbling facades of Threadneedle Street, singing 'White Rabbit' and eating Doritos while a parade of priests blithely boogie by, handing out banana joints and Jaffa Cakes when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes the War On Terror will be renamed der Kindermort bei Kabul, 'faith' will be renamed 'a stubborn refusal to look facts in the face', and Deep-Fill Sandwiches will be renamed Sandwiches when the revolution comes.
When the revolution comes the Wall Street breadheads will become Haight Street deadheads, every high street Co-Op will contain a cannabis grow-op, and skinny long-haired comics will be showered with blow jobs when the revolution comes.
But until then, you know and I know that smokers and dopers will toke and joke and toke and joke and toke and joke...
Some might even get high before the revolution comes.