Marijuana Hell

Marijuana Hell
By Helen Johnston, 2005

You say that pot is just a trip they don’t want you to take.
They don’t want you to have your fun or make a big mistake.

You say that pot is just an herb that’s hated by the fuzz,
“It never hurts me anyway; I’ll quit before it does.”

It’s time to face the truth you fear about the dope you crave.
The green, green grass of home my friend, just covers up your grave.

You think it’s cool and crazy, you sarcastic glass pipe brides,
For you’ll be residue yourself, with low IQ besides.

Get doped up like a faggot, all you drugged out ugly chicks.
Get stoned like drunk slut puppies that use pot to get their kicks.

Go suck the rod that holds the sod you seventh grader sags.
You’ve learned all that you need to learn to emulate scumbags.

You smoke and toke until you choke and laugh till you have fits.
You’ve just begun to do the things to die the screaming s___s.

The ones that tell you hemp is swell most always need a bath.
They flunked themselves right out of school in chemistry and math.

The dope you smoke is all you need, you look like dog with mange.
You haven’t washed your hair in days, just go and beg for change.

When Indians smoked the peace pipe, there was no violation.
Now you can see where pot got them, they faced annihilation.

It won’t be pot that makes you sick and go to jail or worse.
It’s that you missed a normal life and now live in death’s curse.

They’ll let you off at first you know with juvenile probation.
Then every month or two you know they’ll test your urination.

But you won’t quit because you’re slick, it’s even odds they’ll catch you.
But if they do, you’ll moan and cry; they’ll cut you slack I’ll bet you.

They’ll let you off with bootcamp, so just tell your dad goodbye.
You didn’t see your mother’s face with teardrops in her eye.

You broke the laws of Texas and now that was just a start.
You broke the laws of God and man and broke your mother’s heart.

Fire up that clever Philly blunt you’re so sly cause you hide it.
It makes you just a mental runt; your brain declares you fried it.

So go and act like monkeys and get dizzy in the mind.
The urge to be a decent sort will be left far behind.

You start on marijuana, and then sprinkle on some smack,
Some coke or ice or heroin, you’ll never once look back.

You never think you’ll be a fiend, your body you will sell.
You sold your morals down the drain when you joined dopers’ hell.

The legions of the living dead troop onwards to their tomb.
They started with the hempen plant that locked them into doom.

They beg that they could warn you, but you will not hear their cries.
You’re a sick, dumb smoked up sack of stems with ugly bloodshot eyes.

It will take a miracle for you to heed this tale
A miracle is what you need--or find the smokers’ hell.

Helen Johnston is now an out of state alcohol/drug rehab counselor. She was once an inmate in Hale County Jail, under a different name. She had a violent withdrawal seizure while incarcerated, and found serenity through a 12 Step Program. In her correspondence with Sam Parker, MA, LCDC, she wrote that there were no good anti-marijuana poems available in treatment on the same level as “Miss Heroin” or “Ms. Crystal Meth.” Although she is not politically correct or afraid of using bad words, she deeply loves the teenagers of Texas and the USA, and hopes that they can have a miracle.