You like to wear your hair short
And your mother is in full cohort,
Having forgotten our matted days
Of picketing for Rosa through the haze.
Your little girl wears tight jeans today
As blue as the free misty ocean spray
Which wet the hems of our bell bottoms
Before the man jailed us and got 'em.
You shout against animals and ozone
And while I may not have an iPhone
Count me in when you sign your petition
To bring my voice - that invisibly loud gun.
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