Musings on a Wet Sunday in December.

The last time I smoked Weed
(just one lungful of a local cultivar)
I felt exactly as I did when I was five:
a puzzled visitor from afar,
not quite sure of what or where I was
and ignorant of the buzz which must have been around me
(Her spoiled bastard; the handless critter;
needs toughening up; needs the corners knocked off him;
needs a man to take him in hand
and show him what is what...)
They got their way - except that I did not
have the corners knocked off me:
they got sharper.  
                           Psychedelics can be
wonderfully, usefully revealing, in the right place
at the right time, in the right 'set'.