Twas the night before 4/20, and all through the crib, not a creature was stirring, not even — did you hear something?
I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts from the gym, I’d just settled down to watch Adult Swim.
The balls were all packed in the bags with great care, in the hopes Willie Nelson soon would be there.
Then from out in the yard came a crash in a yella whatever it was it was charging my mellow.
And what to my wandering eyes should appear it was a tall circus clown molesting a deer.
No, no, wait just a tree, I made a mistake I guess I should mention I was thoroughly backed.
Then out of the shadows I saw it myself, it was Willie Nelson and Snoop his jolly old elf.
And a man who was grinning and wearing a hoodie, I knew in an instant it was good ole Saint Woody.
I knew by their manner and their lovely aroma, that they’d all brought me something to cure my glaucoma.
And I heard them exclaim as the light bathed them dimly, ‘Bill, you f*ckin’ stoner, let us in — you don’t have a chimney!’
We lit up a joint and ate a pot brownie and soon we were high as a young Robert Downey.
When out on the lawn I heard such a crash that I ran to the toliet to flush all our stash.
I looked out the peephole and what did I spot the chief of police and eight hungry cops.
And then in a twinkling I head overhead, a fully armed SWAT team I thought we were dead.
Then in they all flew like beasts through a fog they barked out commands and shot my poor dog.
But he will be okay.
They were after a pothead who matched my description, but I reached in my pocket and pulled out my prescription.
They looked at it closely, they began to whine and to grouse. But they knew they had nothing, so I said, ‘Get out of my house.’
I said you don’t have a warrant, you don’t have writ, happy 420 and to all some good poop.