The smoke swirls in spiraled little ringlets,
to the ceiling it soars.
Doobie-lipping, acting kinda playful,
digits getting singed and sore.

Smell is sweet to some; some find it stinking.
Going to your head,
you are not caring what smell is near schnoz—
to the joint you’re wed.

Then you’re branding with a flame a new blunt…
flaming, then you toke.
Rasps your throat like paper made of emory,
but still more you smoke.

Getting rushes, but friends are apprising
that you’re almost out.
Gotta make a run to dispensary
and get some takeout.

Cop, cop, cop a new stash, then
go back and in-breathe
lots, lots! A lotta cash spent
on what you will need.

No nose spoons or sniffing off the table
powder that is white—
that’s because you and friends aren’t coke fiends.
Up one more you light.

Toker, smoker, you ain’t seeing clearly;
in smoke rings you’re wreathed,
and those wreaths are wreaking on your eyesight
havoc; well, more breathe!

You have been generous with the sharing—
supply starts to shrink.
Rolling another, you are not able…
later than you think.

Dispensary not open to offer
you some legal weed.
So you have to go and proffer
to guy on the street.

Cop, cop, cop a new stash, then
you’ll have what you need.
Cop. Cop! Cop’s grabbin’ you and
you’re in cell, knelled weed.