My friend the “pharmacist”
Doesn’t treat me with IVs.
From ports he heaves me grass
With leaves the color of ivies.

I’ve no digitalis
And I don’t diddle with khat,
So I’m filling up the font
Of my bowl with some pot.

I’m gonna smoke up a ton
And then eat a deli bun,
I’m lightin’ up (and then a deli brat’).
I am applyin’ the flame
To dame with Maryjane name—
I’m tokin' up,
I’m gonna smoke up a ton.

My pipe is type corncob;
The craftsmanship is rough,
But it’s got what it takes
For doin’ its smoke-borne job.
Every time I burn a pound
I’m floating up, right off the ground.
Next time, it’s a bong I’ll use
For what some would call drug abuse.

I’m gonna smoke up a ton
And then have telly fun,
I’m lightin’ up.
I am now eyein’ a game
Show. . .were I straight, would seem lame.
I’m tokin' up.

I’m gonna smoke up a ton. . .
Get the munchies.

I’m gonna smoke up a ton
Before it goes out on me

And then I hafta eat—
It’s a king-size pie for me.
I’ll have some mammoth fries and baby-
backs, after I’ve had a ki’. . .
Burning up more than a pound,
I’m floating up, right off the ground.
Next time, it’s a bong I’ll use—
Then I’ll have to take a snooze.

I’m gonna smoke till I’m stunned. . .
My cerebellum “shotgunned”. ..
Ain’t lightin’ up (a hellish synapse lapse).
I am applyin’ the flame,
Stoned, to my thumb and I’m maimed.
It’s smokin’, but—
I’m gonna toke on my thumb.

Forty-five percent stump.