We don’t smoke marijuana in Kentucky;
it’s something else that’s our cup of tea.
We just burn it in a spoon and then greet
our lines; syringes fixed for an IV.

We sure make a party out of druggin’:
and I like cookin’ grams then stickin’ you.
Arms and gams are baggy, also craggy—
kinda pitted where we slam them veins so blue.

Don’t get plowed or speedy; oxy’s our smack proxy. . .
this place, where care’s forgotten in a pall.
We don’t have to worry, shan’t get horse-doused:
our white powder’s milled from pills that ain’t goofballs.

Leather straps or rubber bands tie off our arms, where
steely stabbers give candlelight sheen.
Goofballs nil: we won’t let them things trap us.
Yeah, the kids here have kind of a spaced-out mien.

When our crowd gets needy, oxy’s our scag proxy. . .
this place, where care’s forgotten, one and all.
Favor we don’t curry at the horse house;
our white powder’s milled from pills that make [eye]lids fall.
Our white powder’s milled of pills from Purdue’s vaults.

Oxycontin shots wrought in spoons flambé.