Author: William Eaton
The poem I wrote at the Caffè Trieste
By the time I got to Woodstock
A cobra, ever on display, complains
Ballad of a nullfidian
They did this for any number of years
The Drumming Circle, Woodstock
Along the side of the road I found a silver goblet which had been used as an ashtray
Returning, remembering, regrets