(Copacetic in Retirement)
We’re copacetic in retirement. It’s like back in the days
when pot first hit the sixties and our minds were in a haze.
Drugs made our dreaming groovy and our lives peripatetic.
Our clothes were loose and festive. Every day was copacetic.
With time to watch the raindrops dripping drip by drip,
we took life with a grain of salt. Worrying was unhip.
So now life’s cycled back again. Desperate days are done.
We don’t have to fight the traffic. We have more time for fun.
Once more, drugs are ubiquitous, although a different type,
with a pill for every malady, an herb for every gripe.
Now that they’re legalizing cannabis, we’re drowning in fine weed—
a type for every malady. A strain for every need.
Do they think if we’re sedated, we won’t notice what they’re doing?
Will it censor our displeasure? Will it stifle all our booing
as they reduce our Medicare to supplement their yachts,
will they recycle our dinero from the “have-nots” to the “gots?”
Perhaps they want us copacetic, for at last it meets their need
to sedate the angry masses and cover up their greed.
A car in every garage and a chicken in every pot
Got Herbert Hoover elected. Did he do it? He did not!
Now when we apply for licenses, sometimes they merely balk
and say to call a taxi, an Uber or just walk.
They’re cutting our “entitlements,” so we don’t have a lot
left to buy the chicken, but at least we have the pot!!