‘Twas the night before 4/ 20, when all through society

Not a pothead was stirring, no reason for anxiety;

The kush was all ground, and rolled with such care,

For others may come, and I must be prepared;

The stoners asleep all comfy on the couch,

No cause for alarm, they probably passed out;

And Mary with her kief box, and I with some papers,

Giggling like school children, inhaling THC vapors.

When from not far away there arose sound of bubbles

I stumbled from bed to see what caused the trouble,

Away in the shed I glimpsed smoke-filled light,

As if Cheech and Chong had been toking all night

I put my bong down, as worry turned to dismay

And I wondered if my glazed eyes had led me astray,

When, what to my curious nose should arrive

But, a scent o’ so potent, which words can’t describe,

With a haze through the garden, so skunky and thick

That I heard my nose, pleading, “please, don’t be a trick!”

More fragrant than juicy fruit, its odor did proclaim,

I had to appeal for a hit of that strain;

“Hey toker! And, smoker! And Bill and Ted!

And bumout! And, hippie! And stoner and pothead!

To the beanbag in the den! To the hotbox down the hall!

Let’s toke up! Toke up! Toke up one and all!’