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”.

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