Cleaned…
Clean that pipe,
Make it right,
So when I light,
The smoke does go to my brain; yes right…
Take out the screen,
Burnt on the thumb,
Let out a scream,
Wish I were numb,
Instead of just dumb…
Pack it with fresh,
Right to the top, nothing less,
Damn no fire, I just bought this lighter,
Apparently from a thieving blighter…
Take a deep breath, all the way in, fill up those lungs,
If I get high enough I will be able to speak in tongues,
Just one more hit, just one more rung,
And I will be ready to relax and have some fun…
© ~ poppywrittED ~ 9/4/04
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Love Tinka
Now, then, herein it says you burned your finger... hmmmm... outside, you get stung. Inside, you get burned. May I suggest a nice condo on the moon? (grinning with gusto!) hehe... Carry on, you poet, you.. katy xox.
...Michael
Amy