On evening as we walked toward a summer evening band performance on Trade Street in W-Salem, I was this sign and thus:
Scoop the Poop
In many parks, our canine friends
Do their business, not discreet.
With baggies posed, to make amends,
The owners scoop, upbeat.
Some Western states allows an herb
For connoisseurs to grow
And sell in city or suburb
For aches or painful toe.
This ailing man, prescription filled,
Inhaled the magic smoke.
He floated out; his pain was killed;
His I-Pod played baroque.
He drifted to a nearby park,
Where others, like him, grooved.
He noticed by a fountain’s arc,
A baggie left unmoved.
He glanced around and took a hit,
Then strolled to take a peek.
“Oh wow! They left their bag and split!”
It passed his glazed critique.
He packed his pipe and smoked a bowl,
Then breathed out with a sigh.
“This stuff is great!” he did extol.
“Just like the doc prescribes!”
(Sorry, something is screwed up and I cannot read any comments- hope Jennifer can fix this).