To everyone:I basicly added this chapter in the spirit of the holiday season. It's a gift for all who read it, so enjoy. I am going to answer any reviews for this and the last chapter in my next update. Also I did not write this, so I do not claim ownership of it, so if there are any lawyers out there, if you sue me, it'll be a waste of your time, I'm pretty much a bum, so there. Oh, and enjoy!
x x x
The Great Smoke-off
by
Shel Siverstein
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In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael,
lived a girl named Pearlie Sweetcake, you probably know her well.
She'd been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years, and her story's widely told,
of she can smoke 'em faster than anyone can roll.
Well, her story finally reached New York, on that Grove Street, walk up flat,
where dwelt the Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past.
He'd been rolling dope since time began, and as he took a cultured toke,
he said, "Jim, I can roll 'em faster than any chick can smoke."
Well a note finally reaches San Rafael, for the championship of the world.
The Kid demands a smoke-off! "Well bring him on!" says the Pearl.
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that chick 'til she blows up and pops!"
So they rent out Yankee Stadium, and the word is quickly spread.
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, tickets just two lids a head."
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed.
The world's greatest doper's, with the world's greatest weed.
Hashishers from Morocco, Hemp smokers from Peru,
and Shashniks from Bagun, (who smoke the deadly Pu-gar-oo).
From those who call it "light of life", to those that call it "boo".
See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace and leather.
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin' all together.
From the teenies who smoke legal, to those who've done some time.
To the little old man, that smoked reefer, back before it was a crime.
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smokes and cries,
of fifty thousand screaming heads, all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem, and the crowed lets out a roar,
as the spotlight hits the Kid and the Pearl, ready for their smokin' war.
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak,
just the rarest tops, of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
I mean Mowie Powie, Panama Red, Acapulco Gold,
some Kif from East Afghanistan, and that rare Alska Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganj from the Islands, and Bangkok's Blooming Best.
And some of that wet imported shit, that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops, and Kenya Bhang, and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver, that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin' ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there's Hershey bars, and Oreos, incase anybody gets the munchies.
And the Kid, he laughs, and Pearlie, she just grins.
And the drums roll low, and the crowd yells, "GO! GO! GO!" and the worlds first smoke off begins.
The Kid flicks his fingers once and ZAP! that first joint's rolled.
Pearl takes one hit with her mighty lungs and WHOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then the Kid rolls his super bomb, that would paralyze a moose.
Pearly takes one mighty hit and POW! that bomb's defused.
Then he rolls three in ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine.
And everybody sits back and says, "Hey, this just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin' fingers, see the red coal burnin' bright,
as the night turns into mornin', and the mornin' fades to night.
And autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone!
The two sit on that roach filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on.
With tremblin' hands, he rolls his jays, with fingers blue and stiff.
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
As she reaches out her hand,s for another stick of gold,
the Kid gasps, "Damn it bitch, there's nothing left to roll!"
"Nothing left to roll!" screams the Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke!
I didn't come here to f$# around, man, I came here to SMOKE!"
And she reaches a cross the table, and grabs his bony sleeves.
And she crumples his body between her hands, like dry and brittle leaves,
flickin' out his teeth and bones, like useless stems and seeds.
And then she rolls him in a zig zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man, with the fastest hands, goes up in a puff of smoke.
In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael,
lived a girl named Pearlie Sweetcake, you probably know her well.
She'd been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and her story's still widely told.
Of how she can still roll 'em faster then any dude can roll.
While off in New York City, on a street that has no name,
there's the hands of the Calistoga Kid, in the Viper Hall of Fame.
And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
that says, "Beware of being the roller, when there's nothing left to roll."