The Priest Who Wields Cannabis Poem by anthony, tony chabaputa

man of full discernment and holy orders,
Comes to us from round the burning of alters.
Through his lips, the smoke predominates and the truth is uttered,
Mortal-sustaining rites of baptism and sacrifice,
Are to be best wielded before the fire of his sacerdotal eyes.
In this presence of the flesh or in that nonoccurrence of a phantasma,
I forever shall take account of all the tuneful songs of The Priest of Cannabis.
If only man could get wind of the man vocalizing in the holy of holies,
can you sense how hallowed the scent of the holy things he burns therein.
Deep into the holy of holies
From where he comes out born again, high and clean.
Perpendicularly from inside the holy of holies,
Already the priest had made up his mind and wished farewell to this evil world soul of sin.
And fools would go on to open their mouths at any rate,
Before they get to think and before they get to say,
That the priest of cannabis is fallen insane.
While they watch him riding on the sabbatical plane,
Cantillating, cannabis! and only cannabis
Will bring peace of mind among they that famish for peace!
And disengage those deadening chains,
from round their legs,
And from round their hands,
And from round their brains.