The Dreaming Tree

A mister and miss tied the knot,
For love, family and god knows what,
All was good till the 7 year itch,
Whence he became a bastard and she a bitch,
They searched high and low for connubial bliss,
Till a holy sage proposed a bud of cannabis,
And as strange as it may sound,
They were surprised to find marriage counselling for less than a pound,
Now their lives are rather gay,
With a daily quota of 3 kingsize J.

Another mister always wanted to be a piolet,
With dreams of flying into the horizons violet,
As a kid he lived in airplane utopia,
Till he was bludgeoned by a strong dose of myopia,
All his ambitions were now rather blurry,
Like watery eyes after an orgy of Andhra curry,
Till the holy sage realized that if flying was the need,
Apparatus required was just a pillow of weed,
And what would really put him on song,
A nice painted, spherical glass bong.

Now I began to suspect this holy man,
When he requested for porn off my lan,
And insisted that if I were to score,
I must bring the pictures more and more,
But I played along for I was curious,
Eager to prove this guru was spurious,
So I collected all the matter I could find,
Wrote my will as the undersigned,
And when I reached for his stash,
I realized he was Ogden Nash.

My hero since was a toddler,
Was actually a wicked weed poddler,
He laughed at my childish surprise,
And told me my acting was worth a phustprize,
He put his hand on my shoulder, all wrinkled and old,
And acted as if he was speaking words of gold,
Candy might be dandy,
And liquer might be quicker,
But if true joy is sought,
Then look nought beyond pot.