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VOLUME 2, NUMBER 26
<> MONDAY, JULY 2, 2001
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Marijuana bon mots
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| One can know |
| Yet all do care |
| That God just lost |
| His underware.
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| We shake the hands |
| That bind our wounds, |
| Yet crack their skulls |
| With sugared spoons,
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| Without an angel’s |
| Loft so bright |
| To whisk our burden |
| From the height.
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| The casual “aye” |
| Is coupe abjure, |
| Affairs of state |
| Are fasted pure.
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| Faux triage warns |
| Of sleight and rue; |
| Pious coins show |
| Frame made true. |
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| A sense of alimentary |
| Justice lost |
| Lights up her leaves |
| At any cost.
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| The peace pipe holds |
| More wicked fare; |
| The portal hole |
| Is scorched bare.
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| The smoke from hers |
| Is incense replaced |
| With tamped tobacco |
| Firmly a’based.
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| The burbling brook |
| Is a steaming spout |
| When burning flue |
| Releases clout.
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| And, after word, |
| Some wastrel bad |
| Thrashed out the best omen |
| Ever had.
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| Marcia Lynn Neil |
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