Marijuana, marijuana, I inhale you
and your mystic, mythic visions make me smile.
For folks smokin’ and a-tokin’, they might jail you,
and you might be stuck inside there for a while.

In a vial is where I keep my marijuana;
I’ve a green card, so I go to the drug mart.
Many schemes for cards wrought. . .“Got a sore step!”
“I got piles where I dump vile fare!”
If it’s bad that you feel, marijuana
will tame the aches and pains, the banes that used to smart.

There’s no trial for Colorado marijuana
smokers; if they’re old enough, then they can start.
Elsewhere, schemes wrought; some lame but some more ’dept. . .
quite a pile snare of that smile fare.
If it’s bad that you feel, marijuana
can be purchased at the “potlatch” mart à la carte.

Marijuana, medicina.