To stone begets the urge to stone,
No poem need tell you that.
When home alone my eyelids groan
And land upon a sack.
I hit the bong of summer's song
In morning revery.
I hide it in a cluster-throng
In the attic, cleverly.
And what to do when all is through
As far as smoking goes?
I grab a pen and mark the page
With lines, as I suppose.
Yet what were need of hitting bongs?
O! What I would do!
My love if you but let me touch your soul
And give mine you.
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