Our bipeds found from dried out twigs and grass,
One plant’s fanning leaves and seeds,
Tossed into flames, released a smoky gas.
Inhaled, was better than fermented mead.
They identified the serrated leaf
And in burning they all agreed:
When smoking on mountains, on plains, by reefs,
They soared above on empyrean steeds.
We worshiped this idol with incense smoke
And sanctified this divine weed.
Our eyes would water. We thought we’d choke.
But it became dogma and hallowed creed.
I’m now a triped with a decade lost.
My neurons are blocked by weed seeds.
My mind is as clear as a window’s frost,
And in the rest home I live on spoon feed.