In a land where the clock strikes, a most peculiar time,
Four hours and twenty, where the green folks rhyme.
With roach clips and lighters, in hand they all gather,
To celebrate herb where the laughter runs rather.
Oh, they wander in circles, with their munchies in tow,
Chips, dip, and brownies lined up in a row.
“Pass me the guac!” they all cry with delight,
As tacos grow wings, and take flight in the night.
Some shout out the strains, both high and quite low,
“Is that Kush or a haze? It’s a real Mary Jane show!”
With bongs like fine goblets, they toast to the sun,
While the clock ticks away, not a care, just pure fun.
With giggles and snorts, they recount tales of yore,
Of that time when they lost the last bag at the door.
“How could a whole eighth just vanish from sight?”
One posits it’s magic, the others ignite.
As four-twenty strikes, they all cheer with one voice,
“To the plants of good fortune, we rejoice and rejoice!”
But suddenly, chaos, a tumble and trip—
One guy dropped his bowl, it made quite the flip!
So heed well this tale, you wise stoner friends,
Keep your snacks close and your herb with depend.
For at four twenty sharp, let the ritual start,
With laughter and munchies, and plenty of heart!
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
