Fire started to smoke
after the barn was frying.
Folks all ’round there could see
smoke rise effortlessly.
Barn started to fry,
from floor to the rafters.
Creosote’s oily sheen
meant the smoke wasn’t clean.

It rose to the sky,
and all knew: Something was awry.
Then it jumped to the shed,
glowing bright red; the animals fled.

The firefighters arrived
and started the water spritzing.
Worked quickly as a team,
dousing flames, causing steam.

It rose to the sky,
unlike the smoke…not quite as high.
Then they put out the shed
till flames were dead; by that time I’d fled.

But I later was tried;
the jury wasn’t forgiving.
So now you will find me
in penitentiary.
Toke, toke—now I’m just smoking weed.