I can't believe he sells me this shit;
I can't believe I actually buy it.
A whore and a hag to the ziplock bag;
he says, "New," and I just gotta try it.
Seeds and stems make half the weight.
Then I must sift through the shake,
net just over a quarter my sticky bud order...
9 grams is an ounce to this flake!
I swear every burn is the last one;
I can't keep depleting my cash fund.
Down to that last hit, I keep swearing I'll quit,
but I can't bear living without some.
So now I'm just boarding up rooms,
hanging rows of fluorescent tubes,
and come next September I hope he remembers
why he gets left out of the Boom.
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