Mona Says - rock and roll poetry

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This is a old poem about getting stoned with the original hippies in the 1960's.

Mona Says

White collar smells, and private shells, they leave behind when they come here
We don't care what they wear, or what they do, as long as there is room to spare
We talk in circles, sit in squares
Mona and all her friends are there
And no one wants to move
It's much too much of an effort
And Mona says . . . isn't it time for Sergeant Pepper?

And no one needs an invitation
Mona's friends are her occupation
Read her smile of sweet elation
Read her mind from your elevation
But suddenly a weird vibration
Of seemingly infinite duration
Shakes our minds and rakes our nerves and breaks the mood
And Mona says . . . Isn't it time for some food?

This is the way it was. I wrote this poem about my high school sweetheart Mona when we were living the apartment at 49 Prince Street in New York City. Of course, we had the smokeables and all sorts of friends and acquaintances used to drop by to imbibe. And then Sergeant Pepper came out and blew all our minds. The trip was to get high and listen to the thing over and over again. And also to get a bad case of "the munchies". Thus the last line in which The Bitch asks the relevant question.