I met a guy the other day he said he had it all figured out
He claimed he was ecstatic and he proved it with a shout
"I like hippie chicks," he said, "they're not so damn dumb
They don't sing like Ethel Merman, they don't imitate nuns
"They comb their hair with porcupines and loofah their feet
And they become indignant when you threaten them with meat
Their windows grin like pumpkins filled with candles and beads
Their beds are all futonic and there's babies on their knees."
"But my mother wears a hat," he said, "extruded from a tank
And my sister reads good housekeeping and worships at the bank
My grandma loves Pat Robertson says he's it that's that
And my wife says I'm a lunatic but hippie chicks are where it's at."
He told me this while revving up his brand new pick up truck
He wore a leather hat and shades above a 12-pack gut
"I know where they got hippie chicks, they're all in Santa Cruz"
Then he jammed a tape in his Blaupunkt and drove off born to lose
Cause although he got the message he was deaf to the news
There are no chicks in Santa Cruz