>>8258645

>thou self

2/10

Mine hand hath played the skinner and hath won,
Thy beauty's form upon the table rests
Frail shell holds power, to make men undone
In ways more subtle than a supple breast
The clock chimes thrice and once more; twenty past
A smile forms in the corners of mine lips
But joy doth ebb as I look round, aghast
For that bright spark which from mine sight hath slipped
I search every corner of my abode
To no avail! I feel my fate seal
And prepare myself for the long, hard road
Of a night deprived of all that's surreal
Woe floods me, my vision almost a blur
Then an idea! I'll just use the toaster

>>8258649
check yo'self before you wreck yo'self

My mistress’ tri's are not that fruity;
Her THC content isn’t sky high
She’s hath neither the white widows beauty
Nor the dark, sensual attraction of Thai
I’ve seen gingers reflect the sun’s bright glow
But no such fibres I find in her buds
Her scent lacks the rawness of pure B.O.
When my friends smell; I don’t even get spuds
I love to grind her, yet I know full well
I could find better grinding in d’club
She may relax my mind when in ill health
Yet as would girls ’n a bottle o’bub
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more chronic and of decent weight,
You are in my hand, darling buds of May,
Fat cone, heavy stoned, barely any shake,
Sometimes too hot, too bright, your embers burn,
Down your lick sticked side, like a setting sun,
And so my mate Sam must, when it's his turn,
Pat round your embers with his wetted thumb,
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Even when thou's roach has been smoked down too,
I will wait an hour, in a timeless state,
Until it's time to roll, blunt number two,
So long as men can breathe they puff de 'erb,
So long as bud is, life will be superb.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high antics?
You rolled a dench blunt, that made our toes numb
Argued metaphysics and semantics
If I could write the redness of your eyes,
And weigh every bag we had ever smoked
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Gangsta's like this, don't exist, it's a joke
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your lean-ness be termed a poet's rage
Or mad ramblings of a man who's chung
But were some child of yours alive that time,
They'd stop, say: That g smoked grade that was prime!

An extract from my play "Amsterdamlet"-

To toke, or not to toke, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of grim sobriety
Or to roll up against a Sea of troubles,
And in doing so end them: to grind, to smoke
Once more; and in smoking, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? Ritual of consumption
Reprieves us of our cares. To grind, to smoke,
To smoke, to live the Dream; aye, rub the weed,
For in that rub’d-weed spiff, what dreams may come,
When we have passed the dutchie pon de left,
Must give us pause. There's the zone out
When our thoughts run amok of time itself
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The trains running late, the traffic pollution,
The ennui of the day, the hours snail by,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
If he himself could not alleviate
With a phat zeppelin?