walked up the Pyg track
climbed up-to Snowdon summit
in my waterproof Mack
clouds they did plummet
in the mist carried on
going up, i climbed
clouds dispersed gone
made it there well timed
standing by the trig point
admiring the cloudless view
smocking on a vile joint
now mouth tastes like glue
flying down from the top
at a vast amount of speed
simply i couldn't stop
its dangerous this weed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem