Twelve Thirty Revisited
(for John, Cass, Denny and Michelle)

by Joseph McCombs

Young girls are coming to the canyon --
    Some in flowing robes, green on blue on green;
    Others prefer a more Normal attire
    To the spirit and spring of paisley. But they are all here,
    Dancing with scents of pot and peppermint.
    And they are serving no one. Not like the citizens
    Who quietly fail to make their marks
    And disappear into familiar shops. No,
    I hear their rumblings well before noon.

And in the morning I can see them walking --
    Toasting a banner of a new way,
    Singing "set me free why don't ya babe
    "Get out my life why don't ya babe"
    And it's clear. Clearer than CNN on a Sunday.
    Clear and loud and sung strongly
    To America. America the Beautiful,
    Shining bright as an orange tree
    (not that Anita Bryant would really know).
    Clear and loud and too strong to ignore.

I can no longer keep my blinds drawn --
    Now the revolution is at my door. They are
    Teaching me to fight fire with flowers.
    I dream in this haze. It is 1967.
    And I am Marty Balin,
    Crooning to the canyon,
    Counting out my Young Girl Sunday Blues.

And I can't keep myself from talking --
    Thinking Thank you Mama for dreaming
    As I'm singing up a lazy day and humming 8 miles high.
    I can see Sly Stone with a wry grin just past the horizon
    Here at 2400 Fulton Street. I'm meant to be here.
    So I'm here, painting on pavement,
    Saying "good morning" and really meaning it

And the steeple clock still reads twelve thirty.

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