Rebecca Allen ’25
Staff Writer
You were our canyon daddy
and we heed Your call.
We met You in Californian streets
and alleyways.
We were damaged,
all ego
and Your voice told us to surrender.
You gave us shelter,
You sang to us,
playing Your guitar on the grass
in Golden Gate Park.
You told us to braid our long hair
and it became Yours.
We lived with You
on farms and ranches,
driving around in a big black bus,
acid on our tongues.
We would hitch rides
from the city,
and we never grew tired of
telling others of Your
mystical wonder.
On the ranch,
we nursed old Spahn
and cleaned up
when the music producers
drove over,
their cars glistening
under the desert canyon sun.
We held our babies
up to the sky for
Your blessing.
You were us and we were You
and it was all love and beauty.
We shaved our heads for You,
Marked X’s on foreheads
when You told us.
We did it out of love,
love for You and for
the world we would one day rescue
from helter skelter.
We were all over the news and
down at the courthouse
they said we were the rebels,
the bad hippies.
Your love made us strong,
but not strong enough to
stop the doubt.
The trial was endless.
Some of us surrendered,
others held out.
Most of us spent the
rest of our lives in
grand, state prisons
and now,
our love for You is
another American myth.
