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I met a guy the other day he said he had it all figured outHe claimed he was ecstatic and he proved it with a shout"I like hippie chicks," he said, "they're not so damn dumbThey don't sing like Ethel Merman, they don't imitate nuns"They comb their hair with porcupines and loofah their feetAnd they become indignant when you threaten them with meatTheir windows grin like pumpkins filled with candles and beadsTheir beds are all futonic and there's babies on their knees.""But my mother wears a hat," he said, "extruded from a tankAnd my sister reads good housekeeping and worships at the bankMy grandma loves Pat Robertson says he's it that's thatAnd 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 truckHe 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 loseCause although he got the message he was deaf to the newsThere are no chicks in Santa Cruz From Letras Mania