The hippypotamus, though relatively young, yearns for the good old days when Nancy wore her made-for-walking boots and Melanie rode her bicycle past your window (last night).
She would have loved to have been at Woodstock (the first one) but has to content herself with smoking the good stuff that grows prolifically in the bush around her pool and listening to scratchy old records, while searching for the answers to age-old questions, which are forever blowing in the wind, slightly out of her reach.
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