Passing the pipe, “yo ere” he strained
Handing it over, his face was pained
He let go, whoosh, coughing bright red
Thought I’d seen him, in Santa’s sled
I shook it off, took a hit too
Didn’t hold it long, it came out blue
Out of the night, lights came up fast
Siren blasting, he went right past
So scared I pissed, right in my pants
Fred turning red, in a great rant
He cursed the cop, for going right past
I smiled; we had run out of gas
© 2011 Michael Yost
*over 30 years ago
Oh, man, Michael. This is, like, the story of, you know, my whole, like, twenties. Man. Don’t bogart.
In the meantime, here’s a really depressing one!
Peace out, and impeach Nixon, Amy
Oh my … now here’s a memory, huh?
One that’s welded to my mainframe.
The last hit…….a memoryworth sharing……
thanks for stopping by my page..
Thanks. It was all fun afterwards.. smiles
There was that time!! Now a very well written memory..keep ’em coming!
Thanks for stopping by!
Glad to see you share.
Thanks Ji, trying to get my voice back.
Oh, those were “the good old days”. I wonder when my last hit was…
That would be a typical question of a pot smoker considering what it does our our memory. smiles
What was the question again…
I don’t know. sumthin sumthin about sumthin.
Over 30 years.. I read that.. 🙂
I smiled reading this one.. very well poemed!
Yes maam by cracky when I was your age.. cracky, Did I say cracky? That’s a pipe of a diferent color.. now where was I..?