far out

he likes

the weed, the mary jane

the ganja,

the dope.

he likes to lie back

and put

on some music,

dim the lights

and get high.

he's sixty

five

and still wearing tie

dye

and his pony tail

is thin

and grey as it hangs

down his back.

it's the grateful dead

all day,

all night.

he's still

peace out brother,

rock and roll

forever

but he can't remember

a thing

about the past.

life is a blur

and slipping away

with each toke,

each drag.

a hit off the gurgling

bong

with a smile

on his face.

it's all good, he likes

to say.

far out. want some?