The Betrothed Stoner
"Stop smoking weed,
or I'm finding a new boyfriend!"
— Fictional Incident, circa 1990's .
by Patri Friedman, after Rudyard Kipling
OPEN the fragrant bud-box, fetch me some Jamaican Gold,|
For things are feeling heavy, and Maggie has gotten cold.
We quarrelled about Hawaiian, we fought o'er the magic grass,
And she says I'm a hippy freak, and I know she's being an ass.
Open the pungent bud-box, let me stare into space,
Through the soft green cloud of vapour, musing on Maggies face.
Maggie is groovy to look at, sure, she's a righteous lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must fatten, the dopest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a pile of ganja, there's calm in a long slow toke,
But the fattest bowl in a minute is cashed into ashes and smoke—
Cashed—then you just fill another, as perfect and ripe and green
I could not empty out Maggie for fear of being thought mean.
Maggie, my babe at fifty, boring, no longer hot,
With never another Maggie, no matter how many C-notes I got!
And the dark of Days that Are, the sparks of Days that have Passed
And Loves lighter stinking and stale, like the ashes of burnt-out grass.
The ashes of burnt-out grass you are bound to keep in your bowl,
With never more weed to pack, though its charred and black and old.
Open the fragrant bud-box, let me consider a while
Here is a new-rolled reefer—there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better deal, a ring chaining me to Maggie,
Or a bevy of leafy buddies, tied up in in a plastic baggie?
Counselers cunning and silent, comforters tried indeed,
and never a leaf of the clump to sneer at some rival weed.
Thoughts that dance and flicker, solace in times of woe,
Peace at a Grateful Dead concert, balm at every Phish show.
This will the quarter-ounce give me, undemanding, quiet, shy,
Fully content with its duty—make the smoke that gets me high.
This will the quarter-ounce give me, and when its all been puffed,
I'll order a few more ounces, and if thats not enough
The furrows of far off Jamaica, the Netherlands' famous fields,
When they hear my bag is empty, will send their resiny yield.
I don't got to buy them clothes, nor feed their munchies at all,
So long as the screen ain't clogged, so long as my pipe still draws.
I will bubble 'em through cold water, with a bong I will temper my hash,
And the hippy and dope fiend shall envy who hear the tale of my stash.
For Maggie has written some email, and I got to choose today—
The wee little whimpering Love, or the goddess Mary J.
And I've been serving Love for a little more than a year,
But I've been a Priest of the Buddha since before I even drank beer.
And the gloom of my bachelor days is filled with the herbal scent
of joints that I smoked to friendship (and sold, to pay the rent)
And I turn my eyes to the future for which this is preparation,
But the only light I see is—wait, thats a hallucination.
It may stay for this afternoon's journey, but then it'll go away
Since a little weed can create it, who cares what it has to say?
Open the fragrant bud-box—let me get back to the point—
Sweet buds, and who is Maggie that I should quit puffin' joints?
A million surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the load
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Joint gets you Stoned.
Light me another spliff—I hold to my earliest puff
If Maggie won't hang with a stoner, I guess she ain't my love.