1972 was the year
Of the hippy librarians from Islington.
My flatmate met hers first
And I got off with his friend.

They had beards. They smoked dope.
They were very alternative.
Mine gave me a copy
Of Vedanta for the Western World.

I wore long Indian dresses
And tried to like the smell of joss sticks.
In August we sat in bed
And watched the Olympics, stoned.

Late that year I went into analysis.
Freud didn’t get along
With the hippy boyfriend.
We drifted apart.

It was fun, some of the time,
While it lasted. You could say that,
I suppose, about most years,
About most lives.