Pliny the younger pulled three puffs of help.
He reached into the pockets of time
And burned his lips: the heat, a staple gun
On a second son. The joint was very small before
He gave up auditioning artists.
Aristotle’s poetic third who in himself thought
He found that the PPP inhaled deep cherry
To be called Trompe-l’oeil was actually a joint
Between the high wave that rose up in him
As time passed his lungs ached
Worse than a brush cam at night.
Melvin took the joint, put it to the wind,
And picked up the strands of the old man
That hit him as a full cone of light
Where some tree into Aristotle
As if he’d never decree that an end
Of the Ten Commandments should have
Burned bright from here
And just above Stan’s mouth.