Scott McKenzie, I do not know whether you are still living, I rather hope not. Because I am still filled with aggression. You sang, and the sixties erupted. San Francisco too. And damn, the young people flowed, flocked to Woodstock.
But Scott, you made an epochal, bloody mistake. 1968, then just cut me down to size. I was not quite ready for all that yet. Yes, I had tintnesses of the coming future, but damn I still had to cope with pimples and adolescent local girls. And myopic parents.
So off you all went. And I, I had to wash dishes and feed dogs. I, the man with Woodstock in my soul. And the mirror did show some sad mercy with my dancing your ageless song.

San Francisco. Scott, may I subtly ask this – did you see how those girls cried for not finding me on the green fields of Woodstock? Did you? Their sadness to cope with stale guys with moustaches and all, whilst I was awaiting my first precious hair attire watching the mirror?

Scott McKenzie, did you see the Hippie in me, despite my pimples and shameless clothing?

My soul, Scott, my soul man?