In the land of Cannabistopia,
On an island far and lone,
It’s all bliss and belly laughing
Where the cannabis is grown.
They sell it in the stores,
Yes, every single type.
Free paraphernalia with a quarter purchase:
Plastic bong or corncob pipe!
In bins like in a sweetshop,
Already plucked or off the rind.
The shwag, the dank, the sweet, the rank,
And 10% off anything kind!
From birth it was in the baby food,
In the milk from Mommy’s tit.
If Daddy wants to smoke a J,
Baby’s sure to get a hit.
And everyone was happy
Until the great divide.
They stopped smoking in the streets
And hot-boxed themselves inside.
They weren’t a happy family anymore.
No, now they stood in cliques.
No longer giving of the green,
Always stingy with the hits.
And this land once ripe with comfort
Became torn and all askew.
But to tell the story best,
We must learn about each crew.
The Work-a-Days were sober in daytime,
At night, weed was a friend,
Easing them into relaxation
Till the workday begins again.
They were intellectual people,
Hardly seen in sunlight at all.
They emerged, businessmen party animals
Drinking and smoking but gone by Last Call.
The Stoners were quite the antithesis,
Not working to pay for their pot.
They borrow money, and just to buy bags
They’d pawn their whole owning lot.
They share only when in company
Of three other Stoners or less,
But to serious Stoners there’s no better
Than smoking all day alone in your nest.
Inspirationalists were Stoners with dreams,
With ideas and passions strong.
They go to work high in the morning
And continue to smoke all day long.
They say all is enhanced by reefer.
Beauty is all that they see.
Creativity flows like a river.
They thank Heaven for giving them weed.
The Thugs with chains made of gold,
And a new pack of Phillies in tow
Are always out to intimidate.
They always put on a fierce show.
Marijuana makes them badasses.
They smoke like it’s some kind of stunt,
Whether it’s taking a brain-rattling bong hit
Or puffing down hard on a blunt.
The Hippies are lovers of Earth.
They love everything living so keen.
They are born of love and live in love,
And they love to live with the green.
When they smoke, they are one with it all,
With the skies, the earth, and its flow.
They’d rather not work but explore the world
Smoking a joint as they go.
The Hippies waged war with the Thugs.
The Thug’s defiant image was poisoning the land.
The Thugs would kick sand in the Hippies’ eyes
Saying, “Look, now you’re one with the sand!”
The Work-a-Days didn’t like anyone.
They thought Stoners were wasting space.
And they couldn’t understand how Inspirationalists
Functioned stoned all through the day.
Inspirationalists weren’t judgmental people,
But they wished the Stoners would evolve
Into dreamers and creators like they were,
And see weed as a gift from above.
The Stoners didn’t care for any faction.
One was just as bad as the other.
They were capable of combating insults,
But they were too lazy to bother.
And so there was great turmoil
With the fading of man’s love for his brother.
And weeping up in the Heavens
Was the seed bearer: the Father.
“There is too much hate in Cannabistopia,” He said.
“They should be sharing love instead of this greed.
Well, I’m teaching them a great lesson,” said He.
“I’m taking away all of their weed.”
He struck down upon the island,
With all of the force in his trust,
And every plant, every nug, every stem
Was reduced to a pile of dust.
The people cried up to the Heavens,
“Father, why? What is the point?
We’ll gather the dust that is scattered,
And we’ll roll it up into a joint!”
The Father, enraged, sent a scalding rain
And made the reefer dust boil,
Until the piles were reduced to pools
Of sticky, black reefer oil.
“Oh, Father!” the people cried.
“What is this, some kind of joke?”
They pulled out packs of cigarettes and said,
“We’ll just slather it onto our smokes!”
That was the end of the battle
When the Father said giving a sneer,
“That’s it. You’re done. You’ve had your fun.”
And He made the island disappear.
The people of Cannabistopia
Awoke in America, 2003
And were shocked at the sight of police officers
Confiscating a handcuffed man’s weed.
They put the young man in the cop car
And sped away fast from the mess
Of people from Cannabistopia
Who were all weeping loud in distress.
But no amount of tears
Could save this ill-fated tale.
And most of the island people
Were booked for possession and thrown into jail.
The Father with His voice booming said,
“Now you must secretly toke.
You must hide bowls when you hit them.
You must cover the smell of the smoke,
Lest you be locked up forever.
Now the thought of smoking is surely a tease.
If only you could’ve been giving.
If only you’d had harmony and peace.”
He sighed and spoke once more
As He slowly turned away.
He spoke in genuine sincerity,
“Maybe again, someday.”
So now there is no Cannabistopia
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
If we all join together as a family
“Maybe again, someday.”
We dream of a world, lush and green,
No selfishness, no hate, no grief.
One land, beautiful and smoky,
And united under the Leaf.
Poem of the Week
Story of the Week
Graphic of the Week
Most Popular Recording of Issue 93
by Leopold McGinnis
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