Archive
10/26/09 - (2)
Rope-a-Dope
Well, I think that if I tell you what I write, tonight, Is intended to make an impression, knock your block off, Knock you shitless, knock you out in the first round,
You'll not believe that one palooka prizefighter from St. Louis Could possibly possess the slightest iota Of credibility, authenticity, relevance, and yet I do.
Trust me. Marijuana's my pseudonym, my moniker, My nom de plume, raison d'être, cause célèbre, nom de guerre, My rue de Rivoli, joie de vivre, my coup d'état.
And if you're still in doubt, after I finish this bout, I'll eat each spit-out mouthpiece of my KO'd foe, Pledge allegiance to the divided states of seed, stem, and leaf.
And here I go or come, coming and going, going coming. Either way, you'll know I mean black eyes and broken jaws, When I show you I know my stuff, up close and personal —
Grass, weed, pot, hydro, beasters, tree, Schwag, cannabis, Mary Jane, herb, bud, nug, green, Safety gear, cheeba, ganja, Cheech & Chong's Labrador,
Smoked by means of a joint, doobie, pinner, blunt, spliff Or through a glass, bowl, piece, chillum, spoon, bubbler, or bong, Employing some of the most potent strands obtainable:
AK-47, Sour Diesel, Blueberry Yum Yum, Chronic, Jack Herer, Colorado Kind Bud, Super Bubba Kush, Trainwreck, Island Sweet Skunk, Alaskan Thunderfuck.
So there you have it. Let's rumble, sting like bumblebees! Take it or leave it — my humble tribute to THC, My knock-out-punch homage to Leaves of Grass.
And believe you me, at sixty-eight and counting down, up, I'm the pothead champ/chump of the world, the "Hempster." In the ring, I do a mean rope-a-dope. I smoke 'em all!
10/26/09 - (2)
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