You only goal in life was to smoke weed,
and you accomplised that everyday.
With your fake Jamacian accent and clothes,
you spotted undercovers a mile away.

You had several pipes and papers with you,
and hid in your boot an emergency stash.
You bought in quantities i couldn't count to,
I wondered where you got all that cash.

You told me the best pot to look for,
as if I needed the information.
With a fake Brudda beanie and scussy chin,
you made bongs out of coke bottles.

You stood in that corner with your pothead friends,
buying, dealing, sharing, carrying.
You could hold your breath for over 2 minutes,
you had gotten good with all that practice.

I wasn't there the night you died,
a deal had turned on it's side.
With a shuffle and a smile, you couldn't find your wallet,
and earned a 9 iron bullet in the head.

I walked by the next day, just a stain on the ground,
never thought I'd be walking over what was left.
Smokin' Joe, your best pothead friend,
was smoking a bowl for you.

Charles, with your fake accent and clothes,
he was really a Drug Enforcement Agent.
They caught that guy with about 10 kilos,
but I don't think it was worth the price.

12/27/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
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