Whose bong this is I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me chonging here
As I watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse thinks I’m over zealous
But really, I just think he’s jealous
Of my opposable thumbs and the rips I take
As I promote my mental wellness.
I pack the tiny bowl up tight
I flick a Bic; a flash of light.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and coughs in the night.
The woods are lovely, with falling flakes.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go once I get baked,
And miles to go once I get baked.
Happy 4/20 everyone!