When I was a little younger (…OK so I was 10 years younger!), I fancied myself as a bit of a poet. I used to get stoned a lot as well and this is what came out of me… I never finished it though, and I don’t know how to for some reason!

Here’s parts 1 & 2 of my little story. If you comment, be kind…

Part 1…

‘I’m bored’ said the snail, who sat on a rock,
To the fly on his back, in a red chequered frock.

‘Come on for a wander’ said the snail to the fly,
‘We’ll head to the pond, and we’ll smoke the day by!’

‘No fuckin’ chance!’ said the fly to the snail,
‘It’s surrounded by frogs, sat on logs, by the trail!’

‘They’ll eat me right up, with my fistful of blow,
Then you’ll be all on your own, with nowhere to go!’

‘Don’t worry ’bout that’ said the snail to the fly,
‘I’ll give ‘em some chat, and they’ll let us right by!

So come on fly mate, I’m bored past belief!’
‘Just hang on a mo’ while I skin up this reefa!’

So they set on their way, and they let the day flow,
In quite a dazed state, with a fistful of blow.

Part 2…

When two days had past, and they’d still not arrived,
The fly got well pissed off that he’d gone for this ride.

The fistful of blow, had all now but gone,
And the fly cried so softly ‘this is wrong, wrong wrong!’

‘We need some more blow!’ said the fly to the snail,
So get your ass movin’, I need to inhale!’

They stopped off by the weasels and bought some soft black,
And the fly skinned a big one, that made the snail hack!

The they went on their trek to get to the pond,
Where the snail and the fly would spark up their bong.

So, as you’d expect, the journey took time,
With the snails squelchy shuffle and the fly’s tiny whine.

But onwards they went, with a fistful of black,
And still on occasion, you’d hear the snail hack.

by John Porter