Each morning he puffs, then he heads to the hall,
With glasses askew, and tie all a-twist,
Our stoned professor, he’s having a ball.
“Philosophy’s deep!” he begins with a brawl,
While students just wonder, “Did he get the gist?”
Each morning he puffs, then he heads to the hall.
“To be or not to be?” he will loudly call,
As he scribbles on boards, lost in a mist,
Our stoned professor, he’s having a ball.
He forgot how to teach, but he’s painted the wall
With bright, vivid doodles, a stoner’s pure fist,
Each morning he puffs, then he heads to the hall.
When grades come around, he just gives them a thrall,
A smile, a nod, “You all will be brisk!”
Our stoned professor, he’s having a ball.
So here’s to the teacher, with knowledge so small,
Who puffs up his thoughts with a flick of the wrist,
Each morning he puffs, then he heads to the hall,
Our stoned professor, he’s having a ball.
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
