Poems about teachers.
Her hair is made of Spanish moss,
Her jacket sewn of unused floss.
Staring into empty space.
Sees Woodstock, drugs, and Lennon's face.
She reminisces of a time
When weed and sex were so divine,
When being stoned meant fearing not
Tommorow's light or life gone rot.
Jaded now, so old and gray,
While in her hair, the spiders play.