I have been assailed and

    I have been poked by a lighting mage

    Of guilt, self pity and universal rage

    Clawed by winds of mood misunderstood

    I am not the windmill

    I have been left in the eye of the storm

    The cold hail leaves me bruised and alone

    I beg the rain to wash away my sorrow

    That I might be free and warm tomorrow

    I am not the windmill

    When will you be free of that old horse

    That dark rusty chain-mail

    And that sword of stone

    I know you can your dreams for-fill

    I am not the Windmill

    I am not the Windmill

After all the horror and sadness in Orlando I was not sure I could write my wide-eyed stories of San Francisco in 1978 for Punk Globe. Then I remembered some things and the article just about wrote itself.