WHO?
Late in his life, it seems,
Pete Townshend pulled out
That old wool suit, those
Unbecoming brogan clodhoppers
And crept back into the hills
He traded jackhammer riffs,
A turbo-jet lifestyle for
Smoky Appalachain winters
Grew out that grey-ribboned
Freak flag, that hearty beard
He slaughters his own hogs
These days, puffs corncob pipes
As he rocks a handmade chair,
Talking 'bout his generation
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