Death

‘All the young dudes...’

Felix Dennis
July 16, 2001
Mandalay, Mustique
Unpublished
Arrow
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All the young dudes, growin’ old,
       Wanna get their story told,
Wanna see their names in print,
       Write a bio’— make a mint.

All the young dudes, wearin’ specs,
       Waitin’ on retirement cheques,
Takin’ stairlifts up to heaven—
       Lift broke back in ’sixty-seven.

All the young dudes, gettin’ frail,
       Hair a whiter shade of pale,
Thinkin’ back to glory days,
       Memories a purple haze.

All the young dudes, short on cash,
       Hittin’ wine insteada hash,
Got no use for LSD—
       Drugs come from the pharmacy.

All the young dudes — cut to fade,
       Gettin’ limp insteada laid,
Life’s a bitch and two’s a crowd—
       Crank the volume way up loud.

To those of us born between 1940 and 1950, 1967 was...everything.  Call it the summer of love.  Call it the high point of sex ’n’ drugs ’n’ rock ’n’ roll’.  Call it any damn thing you want, but if you weren’t there, especially in London or San Francisco...you wouldn’t understand.  Me?  I was wandering up and down the Kings Road, Chelsea, with a snake-hipped, suede-booted blonde in white lipstick and spider web eyelashes, dressed myself in a full length military cloak and chiffon scarf, hair half way down my arse, imbibing green tea and hash in a hangout near World’s End.  Hey, for a 20 year old South London dude, it didn’t get any cooler than that!