SONNET NO. 155
Let me not to the ripping of sweet reef
Admit impediments. Bud is not bud
Which hath seeds, bro, and insufficient leaf,
Or lots of stems and other kinds of crud.
O, no! it hath crystals like unto snow
Fall’n upon Mont Blanc’s o’ertowering peak;
Moss of Olympus, Poseidon’s hydro!
Nor too wet nor too dry, and yet it reek.
Bud’s not merest Cannabis sativa,
Though the botanist Swede christen it thus;
Bud chaseth off harsh vibes with a cleaver,
Except if the dealer was a bit sus.
If this be error and upon me smit,
I never toked, nor no man e’er got lit.
SONNET NO. 156
Shall I compare thee to a Purple Haze?
Thou art far kinder, we’re talking righteous bush.
Rough kids do snatch the darling buds from May’s,
And Summer’s lease is up (landlord = douche):
Where, then, will I find thee, honeyed kaya,
When my cursèd suppliers do run out?
Perhaps succor shall I beg of Maya,
Although she hath a tendency to shout.
Dime bag or nug, I’ll lie on the carpet
And smoke my spliff, or in sooth just a roach,
For Anne is full vexed: “Lay off, please, stop it!”
One whiff of ganj and anon she’ll encroach.
So long as dudes can breathe and birds have feather,
That rug really ties the room together.
SONNET NO. 157
When to the sessions of sweet silent bong
I summon up remembrance of doobs past,
Methinks I trounce his worship Tommy Chong,
For my weed game shall not soon be outclassed.
Tetrahydrocannabinol, thy glow!
Thy vapors curl from Delphi’s oracle,
That even the sun god himself says, “Whoa.”
(And I’m not being allegorical.)
Call thou the strain Twelfth Night, or what you will,
This Will knows the primo cheeb from the junk:
Afgooey, Trainwreck, or perchance Space Jill,
Purple Urkel, Voodoo, nay, Pineapple Skunk.
The joint’s burning low, so let me be frank:
All the world’s a stage, and stages be dank.