Whose plants these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To grab some bud and do some blow.

My little horse must think I’m queer

To sit here staring at his rear,

Between the blow and tender bud,

The stonedest evening of the year.

He gives his hairy balls a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of smoking weed and snorting flake.

It’s lovely here beside the patch,

But I have all these buds to stash,

And miles to go before I crash,

And miles to go before I crash.