A poem about culture shock




Somewhere on your dusty road

you crossed over;

left Woodstock for The Twilight Zone

to roll up and smoke into our late

summer like broken wind.


No love and peace, no names.

No pack drill from our corner.

Uptight under canvas we were

upright enough to chill your

cider with polite refusals.


We blew you out and when

you had been given

the bums' rush by the commissars

you picked up your blanket

and your old dog and hit

the highway back into history.


Sometime after dark and over

appropriate bar tables

we talked you onto beaches

or laughed you under hedgerows

and I breathed easier

because no one knew

I used to sing the same songs.




Tony Noon



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