Check Out This Poem I Came Across

The Secret of Old Man Ganja
TBA


In a valley deep and green with life
With people clearly blessed
Lived a ripe old man
Who grew some herb that many called, â??the best.â?�

He lived near the forest in a rotting shack
By a creek so swift from rain
And by the creek the old man grew
Special plants to help ease pain.

The people of the valley
Depressed from lack of sun
Devised a plan to reduce their stress
And potentially have some fun.

They called upon the ripe old man
To share his wealth of weed
But he refused to help and turned away
And continued to plant his seed

More folks came to beg the man,
To offer a helping hand,
But he simply laughed when the beggars claimed
â??Youâ??ve got the best herb in the land.â?�

And that he knew, and that he used
As his reason to keep all his crop
For he had no doubts that he grew the best
From river to mountaintop

Some would say the old man was greedy
But others would say he was not
Because feeding the likes of an entire village
Requires thousands of bags of pot

But as the beggars slowly diminished
The old man began to feel
That because his herb was so mighty
He may begin to deal

So he put up signs around the valley
To advertise his crop
And within several hours, a party began
That took many years to stop


The stress left the valley
As the ganja was spread
And for weeks no one knew
That the old man was dead

When the news hit the village
The people didnâ??t care
For the old manâ??s ganja
Was growing everywhere

A funeral was held
For a man whose life was done
But instead of a mob of people
The funeral held just one

By the corpse there stood a curious young boy
By the name of Christopher Tate
He decided it best to bury the man
By his isolated forest estate

After covering the old man in the richest of kinds
Of premium earth made soil
Christopher ventured inside the old shack
To find any secrets he could spoil

On the wall of the shack posed a framed piece of art
Filled with designs quite obscure and abstract
And the young fellow noticed that despite standing straight,
It was held by merely a tack

He touched the painting- felt its wide, thick strokes
And the frame began to drop
It fell to the ground, revealing the words
â??Hereâ??s the stash that never stops.â?�

Beneath the writing was a hole in the wall
And with little left to do
The young boy sauntered forward
And anxiously peered through

He turned his head and looked away,
Convinced it was not real
But when the boy looked again through the hole in the wall
The same thing was revealed

His mind exploded from disbelief
As a world appeared before his eyes:
The air was clear, the clouds were green
And cannabis stalks reached the skies

what a lucky old man

I was reading this poem again this morning and I realize now that the rhyming (sp) is only effective if you read it at a certain rythm (sp).

That gave me goosebumps for some reason. Maybe because I'm high. But that was a really sad poem, mi mano. They just wanted his pot and the only one that cared at all was a little boy.

A really good read, though.

I read a pot-related poem by Shel Silverstein and it inspired me to write, "Old Man Ganja." I was lit last night and decided to give it a try...

I'm stoned and I read this and I realized how much of a little bitch I'm being trying to show off my work..:(