On the Passing of Howard Marks

Howard Marks; a Clerihew

So, farewell Howard, Mr Nice

Massive reefers were your vice

Life’s but a spliff to puff and pass

All grass is weed, all flesh is grass

*

Wasted Angels

Howard Marks and God Almighty

Shared a spliff and had a whitey

Then had the munchies, and a bong

Annoying Peter with the pong

By which time it was far too late

To frisk young Howard at the gate

God, seeing Peter’s consternation

Outlined the process of creation

How on day three he made the weed

With every other tree and seed

To raise in some, apotheosis

And test some others, with psychosis

Now, Howard’s stash was pretty small

And didn’t last too long at all

So, as he didn’t see the point

Of heaven’s joys without a joint

He got his bong, and skins, and tin

Chucked all the roaches in the bin

And, following a wicked smell

Went wafting off to score, in hell

St. Peter looked above and groaned

As all the angels flew past, stoned

*

by Gail

 

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