When are you going to learn to hate
the taste of rain with acid,
fish floating dead in suburban streams.
And when are you going to realize
your worship of CO2 emitting gas-guzzling beasts
while taking trips to the great outdoors as it slowly slips away.
Success with heartache of lost ideals in a mahogany lined office
is nothing to aspire to
after four years at Harvard
and grad school at Yale.
When are you going to learn
from all those fat books
when cynicism replaced peace, love, and happiness,
sometime in the seventies.
I know you danced at Woodstock,
wore your hair long with woven flowers,
despised nuclear reactors and those self-satisfied old men in Washington.
But I don't want to judge
because you're putting me through prep school and the Ivy League,
and I date football players,
and wave banners for things I hate,
and stay silent for so long.
