A sonnet for her birthday
It is Mette Gro's birthday today
all day long and evening to
On her Facebook, all her friends
have sent wishes for her to enjoy
a great day and happy years
Mette Gro is twenty-two
She has been to the hairdresser's
and looks stunning, for tonight
She is going out with her beau
It doesn't matter the color of
In her eyes, they shine like bright
stars in the Nordic winter night
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.
for Dom,
Il vero scrittore non mette mai tutto nel suo libro.
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