The Stoner's Prologue and The Stoner's Tale

The Stoner’s Prologue

The Stoner’s face was tired, her body lean
Her eyes were drooping, her countenance mean.
The Stoner was clever; indeed, there’s none wiser.
She kept ‘special potions’ inside of her visor.
In a run-down tavern she served as a wench,
And all of her clothes, of smoke was their stench.

The Stoner felt sure that her life would turn out
But everyone knew she was really a burnout.
She kept her friends waiting as the day passed on by
And as they were waiting, they only could sigh.
Sigh for the Stoner, who always was late,
And never was early, no matter the date.

Her choler was angry, her mood was disquiet,
And as for her patience, no one dared try it.
She was rude; she was vulgar; she was often unsure.
No one quite knew why she came on this tour.
But no one would ask her, no, not for a crown,
For she made them so nervous, none could keep their lunch down.

So all of the pilgrims, they gave her her space
And if she got too close, they sprayed her with mace.
Indeed they kept a distance that was cautious,
Because her smell made them so, so, so nauseous.
But did this poor druggie, excluded so, mind?
Nay! But in sooth, she responded in kind.

And when the time for the Stoner’s tale drew near
All of the pilgrims quivered with fear.
For they dreaded the contents of their fellow’s story;
Would it be twisted, grim, or horribly gory?
“Fear not, oh ye cowards!” she shouted irate,
“For here is the tale that I shall relate:”

The Stoner’s Tale

There once was a time, though you’ll doubt that it’s true,
When even the oldest of roads were quite new.
And one young road builder who was rather crass
Built a dangerous road on a steep mountain pass.
And though I say mountain, I hope you’re not stiff
In defining this word, for ‘twas nearly a cliff.
Indeed on this road, as you shortly shall learn,
There was a nigh but impossible left turn.
And on that left turn, as I now illustrate:
Of the first ten to try it, six met their fate.

The first four who survived it, they were hippies all,
Met and talked of their luck in a crowded pool hall.
They joked and they joshed, and they talked of their lives;
Then they lifted their glasses to those six who had died.
They played a game of pool, (they were just right for doubles)
And then as they played, they talked of their troubles.
And long ere the night had come to an end,
Those four young hippies were the closest of friends.
Then as on their chilly-cheese-fries they did wait,
The hippies began to talk of their fate.

“Y’know,” said the first, “I’ve got something to say
About how I took the turn on that day.”
“Proceed,” said the others, “we’ll hear your oration.”
“Well,” said the first, “ere I left my location
And headed past that turn from A-point to B-point,
I smoked lots of pot, at least a few joints.”
He paused in his story, as their cheese-fries arrived
Then he continued to tell of his drive.
“It didn’t seem, to me, to be at all hard,
Although I was wasted while driving my car.”

“That’s odd!” cried the second, with decided wit,
“For on my day to turn, a huge bong I did hit
Over and over till I was quite smashed,
On the day that that dangerous turn I did pass.
“What luck, we two have,” said the first with a smile,
“That while wasted we turned with such grace and such style.”
“Yes, we must be great drivers,” the second repeated,
“In fact, on that turn, I may even have speeded.”
“Hold now, for a minute,” now chimed in the third,
“Till I, myself, have spoken a word.”

“For my story’s quite like that of you first two gents;
Before I took that turn, to my dealer’s I went.
I was high as a kite, or so I assume,
‘Cause when I took that turn, I was trippin’ on ‘shrooms.
Yes, on that day, I escaped from the humdrum
Of regular life, and there’s our conundrum.
For you see my dear sirs, when I took that turn too:
Verily, I was as wasted as you.”
This filled the hippies with certain surprise.
And then to the fourth, turned all of their eyes.

“Yes,” said the fourth, “it’s just as you’ve guessed:
I was blazin’ a pipe when I passed the test.
I toked and I toked till I could toke no more;
Then I thought to myself to go to the store.
And as I took the turn (with pipe still in my mouth),
I was so stoned, I had serious dry-mouth.
I thought myself lucky, when I heard of the others
Who died, but I think, now, the reason’s another.”
So the hippies agreed, then, to go to the morgue
The next day and read the dead drivers’ tox report.

And then when they read, they confirmed what they thought.
Had the dead drivers been high? Most certainly not!
They were straight as six arrows, both feet in the stirrups;
They'd no drugs at all, from smack to cough syrup.
The hippies then talked of what this must mean,
And decided what their course of action must be.
They bought paint, and a pillar, and also a sign;
They decided on colors, and made a design.
Then after all their decisions they honed,
They erected a sign, reading: “NO LEFT TURN UNSTONED.”

Now, you pilgrims may laugh at this story of mine:
Of four hippies and their unusual road sign;
But I surely assure you, this tale is true,
And if nothing else, it has a lesson for you.
I admit that this tale doesn’t say it directly
But the moral is certain, and for certain affects me.
This tale’s the reason for the life that I’ve chosen
Instead of some romantic life, full of roses.
And though you may doubt it, this tale’s not for nuthin’
The moral, you see, is: Stoners never get their cummupins.