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White Lake, N.Y. 1969
By Allan Wexler

It rained
that day
on Yasgur's farm
I slogged through the mud
in search of a pipe
in which to put my dreams
I tripped over her sleeping bag
smiled and said hello
she held a pipe in her hand
and asked if I had anything to smoke
So I crawled in and huddled against the rain
inhaling her
i crawled in again
rising and falling to the bass line
we kept on chooglin'...

I never got her name.


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