Ode to the ritual, so grand and so bold,
At four-twenty o'clock, let the stories unfold.
With a puff and a pass, the moment is here,
We gather together—our smoke circle near.
With a lighter in hand and some snacks piled high,
We feast on the munchies, oh my, oh my!
Chips and salsa, popcorn like clouds of delight,
In this hazy haven, everything feels right.
The clock strikes the hour, we cheer with a grin,
Like wizards with wands, we wave and begin.
"To the couch!" we proclaim, like it's our throne,
With blankets and pillows, we’re never alone.
Discussions run wild, on the meaning of time,
"Is it just me, or is this lime really prime?"
Our thoughts float like bubbles, unpredictable air,
Between giggles and hiccups, we live without care.
Then comes the part of the ritual’s grace,
The sacred tradition, the laugh-filled embrace.
The games we invent, from puns to charades,
We’re masters of mirth in this smoke-filled parade.
As the high takes us higher, our worries all fade,
Time feels like molasses, a sweet, sticky trade.
So let’s raise our bongs, and give thanks where it’s due,
For 4:20 rituals, we salute you, it’s true!
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
