I wish that I could eat your cancer, when it turns black.
Boomers, please believe that we are not trying to be cruel. We simply urge you to assess your music in the harsh light of reality. Of today.
And, on a personal note, we mean to cause no lasting pain when we report that the person to whom we first pitched this essay, an editor at The Post born in the 1980s, didn’t recognize the lyrics. At all.
I could go on and on with what Post editors don’t recognize, so don’t get me started, honey don’t, say you will when you won’t, oh oh honey don’t. Yet I digress. Including one person speaking for an entire generation, as though you were me, and I were you, and we were all in this together.
All we are saying, is give peace a chance. War children, is just a shot away, shot away, shot away. To avoid all that, all you need is love, sweet love, love is all you need.
I have not yet begun to sing, but I do know John Paul Jones was more than a bassist, sailor and some guy living down the street with that name, whom everyone calls Bubba.
(PS I would have used Michelle – very French sounding.) Now get off of my cloud.
Terraformed 