The Crav’n
Once upon a
midnight smokey, while I
pondered, weak and
cokey,
Over days I did
drugs, but my body
craved more-
Spazzing out, my arms were
flapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Startled, I stopped my
whappping, flapping on the
crummy floor,
“Tis some
dealer,” I muttered, “tapping at my
broken door”-
My mind can only
count to four.
Ah, distinctly I remember: it was
impounded in November;
My tie-dyed member – van with blue flowers on the floor.
Wallowing in my sorrow – Crying out for the morrow –
From my aunt was forced to borrow, borrow an old two door –
The chassis of a
Volvo, no use to restore -
Up on blocks, down by the
shore.
And the
rainbow colored rustling of each
beaded curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with the need to take more;
Listening to the beating of my
heart – whoops, stopped repeating;
“Tis some visitor
dealing substance at my Volvo door –
Some high visitor, dealing down by the shore –
He has come frequently before”
Then again my
heart beat stronger,
pumping blood, must live longer!
“
Dude,” said I, “or dudette, that
noise is real hard to ignore.
For the fact is I was napping and so faintly you came tapping” –
This is where
I hit the floor.
Stumbling up,
latch thrown, I kicked open wide the door –
Smoke hung there, and nothing more.
Deep into that hazy clearing, dumbfounded, I sat there, wondering, peering,
Fearing
thievery,
my stash I was forced to store.
In the backseat, back to smokin', 30 seconds in, started chokin',
And the only word there spoken was my frenzied cry for more.
This I shouted, and an
echo murmured back the word, “More?”
That one word chilled me to the
core.
Back into the Volvo turning, all that smoke within me burning,
Another hit, and I was somewhat
lighter than before.
“Man,” said I, “that’s gotta be something at my broken window;
Let me see then, what’s upon me out here, offshore.
Let my hands be still a moment and my
sanity restore –
I have my stash to fend for.”
Open here I swung the ingress, when, with many a hop in progressed,
In there hopped a
tie-dyed bunny of the Woodstock days of yore;
Not a trace of turd laid he, not a moment plopped or played he;
Then, without the least hello bade me, jumped upon the forward door –
Perched below my
dangling dice and upon my
dash-board.
Hopped, and
laughed, and
nothing more.
I think this
fruity little bunny found himself rather funny,
The
crasher of a party about to be shown the door,
“Though you may seem quite the being, thou,” I said, “should be off and fleeing,
Rabbits feet seem quite lucky and they’re getting hard to ignore.
I sure could use that
luck upon you, much as I would hate the gore!”
Quoth the bunny, “
Hardcore”.
Much I wondered how a
rodent of such color, could very clearly mutter,
Such a comment to describe me, my whole self and more.
For I could not help but being what this little guy was seeing,
My whole mind set to
screaming by what was yet to explore.
Painted bunny seated with
rapture next to my passenger door.
With so much insight as to say “Hardcore”.