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.