Too Cool 2
My brothers were so cool. Fearless and tough,
we ruled the neightborhood. We were called 'hard',
the rest were 'goats' and 'surfers'. True 'hot stuff',
we owned the school and everybody knew.
Black T's and boots, we boldly strode the yard.
All goats complied, while surfers looked askew.
The hard girls were the sexiest, and brave.
They joined the boys, we didn't have to call.
At night, we tickled pink, and got and gave
the moon and more. No brothers ever had
a gang of girls more loved by one and all.
We had no chains to break, and we were bad.
Where bad meets hip, a cosmic cool is bred.
Haight Ashbury and Telegraph were where
the tribal fires burned. Our rat-bikes sped
around the bay to festivals of smoke,
hard rock guitars, and endless sunlit hair,
where chopper trash and freaks, could share a toke.