Thursday, June 10, 2010


Foreign nations demand the upper hand when it comes to land with sand awash in oil and soil where pot grows like the cultivated weed and is what addicts believe they need, that or speed. A daily dose of angel dust or just enough other stuff to puff, shoot or sniff in their snoot or mix with a fix of this and that.

Even with growing addiction there will be plenty to export so pushers and puffers have nothing to fear until they die in a year or two from an overdose, abuse or playing loose and using too much juice as an excuse.

Your time could be growing close. So have a ball while you can until the Grim Reaper man puts an end to it all.
* * *
Don’t let dope be your last hope of trying to cope with all the woe that’s got you low.
You know it’s so. You you can lick the quick fix making you sick if you say goodbye to the temporary high. The alternatives: YOU LIVE or YOU DIE!


Anonymous Danas Indianapolis Indiana News said...

Terrifically unique poem. Not at all what I was expecting to read.

12:05 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home