Year nineteen hundred sixty-eight,

1. Inside the district known as Haight,
   

There was a man of local fame,

1. A mystic man who never came.
   

He studied ancient eastern lore,

1. Had women knocking on his door.
   

His tantric prowess of that day,

1. Was great, so women paid to play.
   

A Nehru shirt, half buttoned up,

1. Displayed his chest to every slut.
   

While sitting ’neath a bust of Mao,

1. He preached the sacred way of Tao.
   

The Kama Sutra was his text,

1. For naïve women that he hexed.
   

And love for him was just a game,

1. With Sue and Sheila both the same.
   

Always trying to make a hit,

1. And milk it till the lady split.
   

While never really being hip,

1. But rather, being just a rip.
   

Each Kama Sutra variation,

1. Taken without hesitation.
   

All broken spokes – his wheel of karma.

1. Devoid of god and short on dharma.
   

To prove that he was truly hip,

1. He took a one-way acid trip,
   

And lost the player’s final game.

1. Forgotten was his trumped up name.
   

end