An Ode To The Coma S: Connoisseurs Of Organic Mood Adjusters Poem by eugene yeboah

They call weed a cancer, an insidious drug, but to grow this manna a
mere hole must be dug. A gift from nature, a blessing from earth,
carries different names, grades, colors and worth. Regardless of its
variety it seems all too absurd the degree of disgust invoked in one
word, it s a plant not a drug, yet you call it a menace, a blemish on
earth, but it s my stairway to heaven. Emaciated children, destitute
mothers, pathetic school systems, yet my weed is what bothers.
Rendered illegal, made crime by law, the resources invested could
leave one in awe. Pay your enforcers so they can kick down my door,
rummage through my stuff, ask me questions galore, its called a
gateway drug but you seem to forget that it cannot be entered without
taking that first step. We all have a choice, some made the wrong
ones, but why should I suffer because they are so dumb. I m only one
man I can t right society s wrongs, I m forced to suffer by them; this
is how I push on. Cigarettes are more harmful, but not considered a
crime, so I'm thrown against a car hood for rolling with a dime. Your
hatred is irrational, its lacks solid foundations, yet the ignorance
persists generation to generation. The stigma attached almost makes it
seem, as if all social grievance are products of weed, but you know as
well as I do it was arrogance and greed so why can t you impart that
knowledge unto your seed. Hypocritically these same people reign
supreme and now the corner stores have stopped selling phillies. But
regardless of that, I inhale and pass, the sweet magic grass makes me
calm and relaxed, make O's with your homies French inhale with the
girls, one of the few blessings, in this empty chaotic world. There s
been only one female whom I have loved at first kiss, devoid of a
body, personality or lips. Her name was Mary Jane, for years kept me
sane, can t give me head but she stimulates my brain. I am not alone
in my love for this fauna, Turner, Phelps, and Branson, all indulgers
of ganja. Marley, Dylan, and King made weed their solutions, now
decades later behold their contributions. Weed is universal it knows
no class, no division, no hierarchy, no strata or caste. That being
said, lets roll up a j, I only got two things, a 20 bag and all day.
So puff twice and pass, I got nothing but time, if you feel how I feel
I got five on your dime.