We called him the dooch or the mini,
who puffed all his dope like a chimney
he would grind up that budd,
like a crip or a blood
and rolled up two blunts and a skinny.
The very first time that he smoked,
his chest became swelled as he choked
and he tried to inhale,
his complexion grew pale
passing out from the buzz that he toked.
Eventually he learned how to puff,
and of course he was feeling so tough
deciding to pop in a shroom,
something so new to consume
but the amount was not nearly enough.
The days and the nights became long,
he thought deeply about getting a bong
the thrill from that weed,
was all he would need
a world with no right and no wrong.
Il vero scrittore non mette mai tutto nel suo libro.