I have a friend of mine, one Christmas in prison
when he didn't get any--
he was rich.
He was a big importer of marijuana.
Yay!
Anyway, long live hydro.
I'm kidding you, anyway.
He imported a lot of weed, and I had no family,
and he had lots, and lots of money.
But during Christmas, he didn't get anybody
to write him, or send him cards.
I got letters from everybody.
I got letters from a lot of poets, Denise Levertov,
Shelton, Norman Mailer, Adrienne Rich.
I felt like the wealthiest man in the world
and I had no family.
And I felt very bad for him, and I knew he loved marijuana.
He loved mota, so I decided I would try my hand at writing
him a Christmas poem.
I'm going to tell you the story about what
happens after this poem was written and I gave it to him.
This is the poem I gave him.
"It was the night of Friday and all through the town
not a hooker was working, no narcs were around.
The joints were all rolled and put into stacks in hopes
that we soon be stoned to the max, when all of a sudden
there came a loud knock, and everyone yelled, 'It's a cop!
It's a cop!'
We went to the door to see who was there,
to see who it was that gave us a scare.
And what to our glassy red eyes should appear?
But a pound of Colombian and two cases of beer!
The guy standing by was wearing a smile,
so we invited him in to party a while.
He spoke not a word but started to roll, opened a beer
and lit up a bowl.
By 2:00 in the morning, all had gone well.
The people were happy and screwed up as hell.
And we heard that guy say as he waved us goodbye,
'Marijuana to all, and to all a good high!'"
[APPLAUSE]