We came to Mendocino. . .
The Pacific Ocean shoreline.
It’s up there that men do weed grow,
And it is really fine.
Cannabis was our druthers. . .
Springs up from seeds in the ground.
Must be careful, cause up there guns
To guard pot plots are found.
Smokin’ the ’juana,
Fire one up, get high,
Toking the ganja.

We burned up several hundred pounds;
We’re high. . .never comin’ down.
Drunkards’ craws have rum and other rounds—
Swilling drinks. . .there we frown.
Each of us a toker,
Always a blunt stuck in the face.
Sometimes there’s a gunnin’ bout
When the Feds come to raid the place.
Smoke from the guns swirls,
Firing are the guys,
Smoke from the gunsels.

We’d rented rooms at some rank motel;
There was plenty smoke in there.
We all were rolling joints, then some schmuck decides:
Up window for fresh air.
Soon the dread blue lights rouse us from our beds,
But we say, “No sweat!”
Choke laughter out as they cuff our wrists. . .
We’re stoned out of our heads.

Thrown in the con-stir. . .
Time’s past—we’re not high.
Go get a lawyer!