There’s a mate of mine in trouble so I had to help him out.
We were a pair of silly buggers, well known without a doubt.
You see we thought that smoking pot would be just a bit of fun,
and it was for a little while but now real damage has been done.
I’m all right and doing fine; I don’t even think about the stuff,
but Hilly, he kept smoking it and couldn’t get enough.
To see him there with sparkling eyes and grin from ear to ear,
was funny when those times were good, but they’ve all gone I fear.
Poor Hilly, he’s gone crackers, now he’s starting to see things.
He’d go swimming through the kitchen then in the lounge grow wings.
His mind is somewhere up on Mars; thank God he’s got me here,
to offer him my guidance since my mind once more is clear.
It got so bad for Hilly that finally he went ‘round the twist,
and I had to take him by the hand to a psychiatrist,
for Hilly thinks that he’s a racehorse, and just the other day,
I found him in a stable on all fours and eating hay.
The psychiatrist examined Hilly who gave a neigh or two,
then he snorted and he whinnied, and bucked a little too.
I handed him two cubes of sugar so the silliness would pass,
but the doctor then suggested that we give Hilly some grass.
Hilly’s eyes lit up and looked around; his hair wisped like a mane.
He started babbling for a saddle when he heard that word again.
I pleaded “Mate you’ve got to help him; Hilly’s going mad!”
The psychiatrist agreed with me “He has, more than a tad”.
Then said he, the smirking shrink “I’m sure he can be cured,
but it will take a lot of treatment and a high cost is endured.
I’m not talking peanuts here to treat the likes of Hilly’s cases.
“Money’s not the object” I replied. - “He’s already won two races!”
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2021
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