I got drunk on hosts of toasts and pails of ales,
then tried something else, and I could see:
gross drunkenness was feckless,
scrambled up my bean.
Did a joint, meant I had a new scene.

Stuck it in my face—now I’m green leaver;
different pace is found over time.
I’m not drunk—I’m a green leaver
not a believer in fine wine.

I sot [sic] drunkenness: a pour-and-tipple binge,
but the more I craved, the less I thought.
Chucked the booze, then tryin’
sativa’s domain
opened up the sunshine in my brain.

Smile is in my face, now I’m green leaver.
Not in place, the downing of wine.
I’m not drunk—I’m a green leaver
and a dreamweaver in my mind.

[interlude]

Whoa! drunkenness was reckless,
mangled much my “bean”;
and another thing can this word mean. . . .

Smile is in my face, now I’m green leaver.
Not in place, the downing of wine.
I got plump—as a green leaver
I’ve wrought the fever much to dine.

I’m stuffing my face, ’cause I’m a beans reaver—
rapid pace is now how I dine.
And I’m a beans reaver [chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp], ice-cream retriever. . . .