Four feet of glass, four days gone by,
A chimney of green reaching up to the sky.
One bowl, then another, the hours roll on,
And suddenly Tuesday has somehow been gone.
The smoke curls upward, the clock loses track,
The couch has become home base, no turning back.
The world keeps on spinning, the chores wait in line,
While the bong stands like royalty, wasting no time.
The lighter clicks once, then clicks again,
Was that the third bowl or the seventh since ten?
The plans that I made have quietly fled,
Replaced by a blanket and thoughts in my head.
But even old stoners know when to pause,
When the fun starts to blur and the fog takes the cause.
Four days of flying can leave quite a haze,
And the body may need a few clearer days.
So here’s to the flower, the laughter, the art,
The ritual that sometimes takes over the chart.
Enjoy what you enjoy, but keep one eye on the clock,
And give your lungs a break from that four-foot stock.
Four feet of bong and a head full of song,
Sometimes the best hit is knowing when to call it a day.
Leave a Reply