Psychedelic Den - Longer version

Now there’s a sandbox in the house, as though lying on the beach.      
Boys, I just had a thought, maybe if we just listen and not at all teach.        
Now a teepee etched on the mind, from within my psychedelic den,        
by reliving ones childhood, it might make us wise men, again.        
Piano tuning, garnished with sea salt, sinking even deeper,      
down with non-believers, rejected by the crazy gatekeeper.        
Add a pinch of snorting pepper, minds are suddenly lighter, than dark.      
While sitting on the same pile of sand, as a pack of squatting dogs bark,        
yelping pups protesting in Downtown Main Street.      
Upon hearing some musical witchcraft, with a constant zombie beat,      
Demonstrating ‘bout a propaganda communist war.      
While rushin’ to eat some smorgasbord full of paranoia, that’s for sure.        
A preacher man telling us all, god just jumped off, with a man on the moon.
Meanwhile, climbing four walls of my bedroom, can’t find a way out, anytime soon,
as a voice in my head, is telling me, “To be even more bizarre”.
For too many lonely years in bed, I finally woke up, by plucking at my guitar,
then back upon the stage, in beautiful California, the greatest surfing town.
Still getting nasty flashbacks though, oh how LA can weigh you down.