‘Twas the night before 4/20, and all through the studio,
Not a stoner was stirring, not even Coolio.
The joints were rolled by the dealer with care,
In hopes that an ounce would soon be bought there.

The students were passed out, now drooling in beds,
While visions of Mary Jane danced through their heads.
And some ash in odd places, and burrito in lap,
Snoochy boochies on our brains for this long April nap.

When down the hall there arose such a clatter,
Every stoner sprang from bed to investigate the matter.
Behind a closed door, we found Snoop rather rash,
A few clinks from his grinder and out falls our stash.

The look on the face of the gangsta sure showed
The meaninglessness of the money he now owed.
When, what to my blazed-red eyes should appear,
But a pound of Purple Haze, flung out from his rear.

With a fatty-mcfatty, rolled tight and then lit,
I knew in a moment this must be good shit.
More rapid than spliffs this Dogg got me dazed,
And as he inhaled then exhaled, his eyes became glazed.

“Now Trainwreck! Now, AK! Now Rumulenand Kush!
On, Widow! On Wauwie! On Granddaddy Purps!
To the top of the ceiling! To the top of the clouds,
Now toke away! Toke away! Toke away crowds!”

As leaves are trimmed from fresh Humboldt weed,
So, too, are the stems and that pesky, rare seed.
So around through the alleys the gypsies they flew,
With a sack full of treasures and homemade green brew.

And then in a clinking, I heard from the bedroom,
The cackling and laughing of a rotation in bloom.
As I drew in the contact, and turned towards the glare,
Bob Marley sat smoking, returning my stare.

He was dressed all in hemp, from his head to his feet,
And his dreads were all matted with ash from his spleef.
A bundle of weed he had stashed in his pack,
And an emblem of Zion hovered above his bent back.

The stump of the spliff he held tight in his lips,
And the smoke it spewed from a couple fat rips.
He had a lean face and a soccer player’s body,
That shook as he coughed cuz the weed wasn’t shoddy.

He spoke not a rhyme but went straight to his music,
And filled all our bowls, then turned with a lyric.
And laying his beats aside of his prose,
And sampling this lick, up the chimney we rose!

We sprang to his ride, toward the stereo’s thumping,
And up and away we both flew, ooh yeah, we’re jamming.
But some heard him exclaim, ‘ere we drove right on by,
“Happy 4/20 to all, and to all a good high!”