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Shel Silverstein Poems

In 1956, Shel Silverstein caught the attention of Hugh Hefner, and began his life-long association with Playboy magazine supplying poignant adult cartoons, fiction and other humor... such as TeeVee Jeebies, Shel's travel series, songbooks... and even Shel in a nudist camp. My dad has recited these over to me my whole life. But be warned, these are not his children poems.

By: Shel Silverstein

It’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.
The onions are fryin’, the neon is bright
And the jukebox is startin’ to play.
And the sign on the wall says, IN GOD WE TRUST,
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The short–order cook with the MOMMA tattoo,
He’s turnin’ them hamburgers slow,
Eggs over easy, whole wheat down.
"D’ y’all want that coffee to go?"
He never once dreamed as a rodeo star
That he’d wind up here today
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.
There’s a tall, skinny girl in the very back booth
Wearin’ jeans and a secondhand fur.
She’s been to the doctor, then called up a man
And now wonders just where she can turn.
She stares at her coffee, then looks toward the ceiling,
And, Lord, it’s a strange place to pray
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s a guy in a tux and he stands in the corner,
Feedin’ the jukebox his dimes.
He just had a woman and thought that he’d bought her
But found he’d just rented some time.
And he just couldn’t sleep, so he come back to see
If anyone else wants to play
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s an old dollar bill in a frame on the wall,
The first one that Rose ever made.
It was once worth a dollar a long time ago,
But, like Rose, it’s beginnin’ to fade.
She’s back of the register, dreamin’ of someone,
And how things’d be if he’d stayed,
But it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The stoop–shouldered man and his frizzy–haired woman,
It’s strange how their eyes never meet.
He’s playin’ the pinball, she’s fixin’ the blanket
Of the baby asleep on the seat.
But he’s out of work and she’s puttin’ on weight
And they never had too much to say,
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The waitress Darlene, she sits at the counter,
Paintin’ her fingernails blue,
And the short–order cook, he yells, "Move it or lose it
And pick up an order of stew."
But someday a rich, handsome man will walk in
And carry her far, far away
From two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

Eddie the cop, he sits at the counter,
Tryin’ to look dapper and cool,
His beer–belly gut overlappin’ his belt
And his blue shiny ass overlappin’ the stool.
He gulps down a handful of doughnuts, and belches,
And never once offers to pay
And no one says nothin’ at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s the weight lifter there in his black skintight T–shirt,
He’s pickin’ his teeth with the check.
He coughs now and then until somebody looks,
Then he casually flexes his pecs.
He smiles at the curly–haired, apple–cheeked sailor
And the sailor, he quick turns away.
We take our best shot here at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The hollow–eyed trucker, in a well–practiced gesture,
He swallows another white pill.
If he drove as fast as his insides are speedin’,
He’d leave all the world standin’ still.
And if he can make 300 miles by eleven,
They won’t take his wheels away,
But it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

Ol’ Slim, the dishwasher’s takin’ his break
In the alley, away from the light.
He smuggles the ham to his buddy who’s waitin’
And his buddy fades into the night.
He looks ’cross the alley to the blonde hooker’s window,
But the damn bitch, she’s pulled down the shade,
Another dream shattered at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

Old man McKenzie, he’s thumpin’ his Bible,
Rantin’ ’bout hell’s burnin’ fires.
"You’re all eatin’ your chicken and drinkin’ your wine,
Indulgin’ your carnal desires."
He kicks at the jukebox, then pinches Darlene.
She screams and damn near drops her tray,
Rejectin’ salvation at two in the mornin’
Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The junkie, he’s standin’ outside of the glass,
Shakin’ so hard he can’t stand.
There’s a Saturday–night special deep in his pocket
And the pearl handle sweats in his hand.
But there’s too much light and too damn many people
And relief is still twelve bucks away
And he won’t find the answer at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The tall rangy shortstop of the semipro team
Sticks a wad of tobac in his jaw.
He went two for four in the win over Danville
And didn’t he get standin’ applause?
But he’s 32 and still clings to the dream
That he’ll play for the White Sox someday,
And he’ll sign an autograph if you just ask him,
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The shaggy–haired hippie, he’s finished his meal
And he’s countin’ the change in his jeans.
Burger and coffee are 85 cents
And he’s only got 23.
He smiles at Rose and she winks back at him,
But Lord, that’s a high price to pay
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The wino, he’s pushin’ the broom and he’s thinkin’,
Tomorrow his welfare comes in.
And Rosalie hands him a slug for the jukebox
’N’ says, "Play number seven again."
’Cause she loves those sad songs, those he–done–her–bad songs
To while the long hours away
And mem’ries hang heavy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s crazy ol’ crazy Annie, she’s 74,
Wearin’ short skirts and white–vinyl boots.
She’s luggin’ three shoppin’ bags stuffed full of trash,
Lookin’ for leftover food.
They say that somewhere in her garbage–filled house
There’s a million bucks hidden away,
But she just grabbed your half–eaten egg–salad sandwich
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The kitchen–supply salesman, he’s tellin’ Rosie
Her ol’ steel deep fryer is shot
And everyone laughs as she mimics Mae West
’N’ says, "Big boy, my fryer is still plenty hot."
Then the salesman says, "Rosie, that’s pretty damn good,
But ain’t you lots older than Mae?"
A laugh a damn minute, at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s a homecomin’ party for Billy Costanza,
Just back from the Vietnam hills.
Hey, is it true ’bout the slant of them women?
And how many gooks did you kill?
He raises his glass with a stainless–steel hand.
Ain’t science doin’ wonders these days?
And it’s hail to the hero at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The prima ballerina of Eau Claire, Wisconsin,
She’s askin’ if there’s any work.
The rope round her suitcase is comin’ apart
And her feet and her pride sure do hurt.
And the cook’s sayin’, "Yeah," and Darlene’s sayin’, "No,"
And Rosie says, "Sit down and wait,"
Nothin’ comes easy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s an old wooden sign hidden under the counter,
It’s been there for 17 years.
And the paint’s dried and peeled like her tears.
And Rosalie’s plannin’ on heavin’ it out
In the alley some one of these days,
But it ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ this Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

Old Louie, he’s limpin’ from table to table,
Askin’, "Hey, what can you use?
I got wrist watches, diamond rings, fur coats and stag films,
No reasonable offer refused.
I got two kids in college, a wife in the hospital,
Also one foot in the grave.
How ’bout a transistor or a watch for your sister?"
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The guy in the tux’s cuttin’ into his steak,
Smilin’ like Gary Grant would.
And Darlene keeps runnin’ and fillin’ his cup.
He looks like he tips pretty good.
He pockets the three–dollar bills of his change
And just leaves the 14 cents lay.
And Gary Grant’s now just another cheap bastard
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s a dude in the john and he’s pukin’ his guts out,
Swearin’ he won’t drink again,
And she’s just a tramp, and life’s just a hustle
And that bastard was never a friend.
He rinses his mouth out and wets down his hair
And heads for the bar ’cross the way.
A promise don’t last long at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s an ex–con just fresh from a 14–year stretch
And he’s rapidly losin’ his poise.
There’s pork chops and lamb chops and chili to choose from
And he ain’t used to makin’ a choice.
And there’s dogs and there’s kids and that damn waitress’ tits
Are just ’bout to blow him away,
He’s tremblin’ and sweatin’, enjoyin’ his freedom
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s a bus driver cussin’ his ol’ burned–out Greyhound,
Workin’ on his second beer.
He’s got a daughter –– lives here in this town,
But hell, it’s been almost ten years,
And she’s probably married, with kids of her own,
And then, what the hell would he say?
"Come down meet your daddy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe?"

Now old crazy Annie, she’s readin’ the palm
Of the tall, skinny girl in the fur.
There’s a man and a home and three beautiful children
In her future just waitin’ for her.
The girl starts to laugh –– now she’s startin’ to scream
And they might have to haul her away
From two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

There’s Rosalie’s kid, and he’s just up from college ––
He’s brought his girlfriend along.
She shakes hands with Rosie and sniffs at the grease
And says she’s not hungry at all.
Then Rose feels ashamed that her apron ain’t clean
And what would the girl’s parents say
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe?

Milton, the cabdriver’s standin’ there, squirmin’,
Tellin’ his woes to the con.
His hemorrhoids are burnin’ and his bladder is bustin’
And somebody’s usin’ the john.
And the streets are all bare and if he found a fare,
He’d prob’ly get mugged on the way.
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The kid with the acne, he crumples the program
He got at the Tri–Hi–Y dance.
He’s usin’ Colgate and Arrid and Brut
And he still can’t get laid worth a damn.
So maybe tomorrow he’ll buy some Lavoris
And the pussy will all come his way.
Settin’ and dreamin’ at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe.

The black–jacket biker, he looks out the window,
Watchin’ his Harley outside.
Freeways and highways and 20–lane skyways,
Not many dirt roads left to ride.
And this mornin’ he looked in the mirror and noticed
His hair was takin’ some gray,
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

There’s a young dusty cowboy, he’s workin’ the fair,
Cursin’ the bitch he just rode.
And the short–order cook, he hears the kid braggin’
And sees himself ages ago.
He could tell the punk how he rode in the big ones,
But hell, let them sleepin’ dogs lay,
The young ones, they ride, and the old ones fry onions
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The bald–headed writer of unsavory songs,
He’s brushin’ the crumbs from his beard.
He’s filled up his notebook with other folks’ sorrow
And his belly with other folks’ beer.
Now he’s rhymin’ a tune ’bout this dingy ol’ diner,
Just one more the DJs won’t play,
But life is a song and ain’t we all singin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The blonde–haired pretender, she’s fixin’ her eyelash,
And the mirror, it laughs in her hand.
She’ll glance round the room with the smile of a woman,
Then she’ll curse in the voice of a man.
From young football hero to old midnight queen,
He’s sure come a long lonesome way
To two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

There’s a sad–eyed inspector from the ’Partment of Health
Examinin’ the kitchen too close.
He’s writin’ citations and quotin’ vi’lations
And shakin’ his head as he goes.
Then Rosie walks back there and closes the door
And when they come out, it’s OK.
And he’s smilin’ and tearin’ up all the citations
On Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

There’s a big zigzag crack in the front plate–glass window,
Where last night the cowboy went through.
Somebody said he said somethin’ to someone
’Bout a lady that somebody knew.
And somebody reached for a bottle of ketchup
And blood spattered every which way
To blend with the grease stains that cover the walls here
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

Eddie, the cop, he fingers his holster
And stares at the hippie’s long hair.
He’s probably carryin’ five pounds of dope,
But he’s too damn tired to care.
Twelve years on the force and eight commendations
And he just might make sergeant someday.
So fuck the whole city and all the damn weirdos
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The jogger, he’s finished his long midnight mile
And he stops for a quench of his thirst.
He’s heavy of breath, and he’s smellin’ of sweat,
And he sure could of showered up first.
And ol’ crazy Annie yells, "Where are you runnin’?
Don’t you know you just can’t escape?
We’re all damned forever to Saturday nights here
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe"

The toothiess ol’ wino, he starts in to shoutin’,
"You don’t know how lucky you are.
That damned VA hospital pretty near killed me.
Hey, who wants to look at my scar?"
He stares round the room, and then picks up the old broom
And starts sweepin’ the weekend away
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The TV set’s flickerin’ up there on the shelf
And nobody’s watchin’ but Slim.
James Cagney is climbin’ the ladder of crime,
That woman ain’t no good for him.
Hey, did you see him push that grapefruit in her face?
Hell, they really could act in them days.
But who’s got a grapefruit at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The short–order cook, he just stares out the window,
’Waitin’ the breakin’ of dawn.
He’ll pick up his pay, and then he’ll tell ol’ Rosie
He’s gonna be travelin’ on.
And she’ll say it’s short notice and, well, what the hell,
He might give her just one more day.
’Cause it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe

The baby–faced sailor, he leans on the phone
And dials the number again,
While the guy in the tux tells the girl in the jeans
’Bout the wonderful places he’s been.
Then the wino, he puts down his broom and starts shoutin’
’Bout the fortunes that he threw away.
And the black–jacket biker, he gets on his Harley,
’Cause Monday’s a nine–to–five day.
And the blonde–haired pretender, she’s askin’ the con
If he thinks she should take off some weight.
And the songwriter’s promisin’ Miss Ballerina
That he’s gonna write her a play.
And the sweet college girl’s askin’ Rosalie’s kid
If he knows where to score some cocaine.
And the speedin’ truck driver tells the sleepy cabdriver
They ought to trade jobs for a day.
And Eddie the cop keeps his eye on the hippie,
While the junkie just shuffles away.
And ol’ crazy Annie, she’s askin’ ’em all,
Have you called your momma today?
And the weight lifter’s tellin’ the baby–faced sailor
That he’s got a beautiful face.
And the short–order cook tells the rodeo cowboy
He’ll outride his ass any day.
And Eddie the cop, he’s lookin’ round, yellin’,
Hey, who owns the blue Chevrolet?
And the bus driver’s tellin’ the young ballerina
That she can ride free to LA.
And Rosalie’s askin’ the shaggy–haired hippie
If he’s got a warm place to stay.
And the short–order cook takes a five from the till
While Rosalie’s lookin’ away.
And the onions are fryin’, the neon is bright
And the jukebox continues to play.
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Caf´┐ę.

Submitted On: 12/01/81
By: Shel Silverstein

I met her on a corner in Duluth
(That’s the truth.)
She was tryin’ to fix her shoe in a telephone booth
(Her name was Ruth.)
She said she was just waiting for a bus
But I hid my thumb cause I knew just what she was,
And I ain’t gonna let no thumbsucker such my thumb.
It’ll drive you crazy and leave you deaf and dumb.
It’ll make you crawl and climb the wall
Leave you without no thumb at all.
So I ain’t gonna let no thumbsucker suck my thumb.

I’ll tell you what them thumbsuckers like to do.
They suck your thumb till it’s wrinkled like a prune
They’ll say you’ve got the sweetest thumb of all
But then they suck the thumb of the guy livin’ down the hall
That’s why I ain’t gonna let no thumbsucker suck my thumb

(etc. . . etc. . . until finally giving in.)

Submitted On: 01/01/75
By: Shel Silverstein

Dave McGunn was a surfin’ bum, half–crazed by the blazin’ sun.
From Waikiki to the Bering Sea, he rode ’em one by one.
Now he hung offshore ’bout a mile or more, out where the dolphins played,
And his wild eyes gleamed as he schemed and dreamed
To ride the perfect wave.

Oh, ride the perfect wave, Dave, ride the perfect wave.
If you wait it out and you don’t sell out, you may ride
The perfect wave.

He crouched in the spray and he waited all day till the sun gave way to the moon,
And his legs grew cold and he grew old and wrinkled like a prune.
And the years rolled by and the surf broke high and the 40–foot breakers sprayed.
But he sneered at ’em all, sayin’, "Too damn small; I’m waitin’
For the perfect wave."

He was sleepin’ on his board when he woke to a roar as thunder shook the sea.
’Twas the dreaded California quake of 1973.
And he stared at the reef in disbelief, then paddled with tremblin’ hands
As a monstrous crashin’ tidal wave came roarin’ ’cross the land.

It was 12 miles high and it filled the sky, the color of boilin’ blood.
And cities fell beneath its swell and mountains turned to mud.
Its deadly surf engulfed the earth and left not a thing alive.
And high on the tip with a smile on his lip was Davey hangin’ five.
He hit the top of the Golden Gate at a thousand miles an hour,
Over the top of the Empire State and the tip of the Eiffel Tower.
And as he wiped out, you could hear him shout as he plunged to a watery grave,
"Hey hi dee hi, I’m glad to die –– I’ve rode
The perfect wave."

Submitted On: 01/01/75
By: Shel Silverstein

Oh, ever since my Masochistic Baby went and left me
I got nothin’ to hit but the wall.
She loved me when I beat her,
But I started actin’ sweeter,
And that was no way to treat her at all.
Yes, she is the one that I’m dreamin’ of,
And you always hurt the one you love.
And ever since my Masochistic Baby went and left me,
I got nothin’ to hit but the wall, oh no...
Nothin’ to beat but the eggs
Nothin’ to belt but my pants
Nothin’ to whip but the cream
Nothin’ to punch but the clock
Nothin’ to strike but a match.

Submitted On: 01/01/75
By: Shel Silverstein

She’s a liberated lady and she’s lookin’ out for herself.
And she don’t need your protection,
And she does not want your help.
And if you’re lookin’ for some pretty flower,
You better go look somewhere else,
’Cause I warn you, she’s a liberated lady.

She got off work at the foundry... she was feelin’ kind of beat.
On the bus she had to stand and let some fella have her seat.
And she pinched the ass of a guy who passed her
Walkin’ down the street.
When he called a cop, she didn’t quite understand
So she stopped off on the corner for her usual shot of rye
When some guy lit her cigarette, she punched him in the eye.
Then he kicked her in the balls, it was enough to make her cry,
But she stood there and she took it like a man.

She’s a liberated lady, and she smokes them big cigars.
You’re gonna find her drinkin’ boilermakers at the corner bar.
And in 30 seconds flat, she’ll change a flat tire on your car.
Look out –– she’s a liberated lady.

She come home to find her darlin’ husband cryin’ in distress
She said, "Why ain’t supper ready and why is this house a mess".
He said, "The kids have drove me crazy, and I need a brand–new dress.
And how come you don’t ever take me dancin’?"

She sat down to smoke her pipe, and she thought back to the time
When she was satin, silk and lace with nothing on her mind.
But now she’s gotta mow the lawn and pay the bills on time
And pray to Mrs. God, she don’t get drafted.

They got into bed that evening, and she strapped her dildo on
She climbed on top of him and said, "Ok, let’s get it on".
He said, "You know I’ve got my period and my headache isn’t gone ".
And he fell asleep –– the chauvinistic bastard.

But she’s a liberated lady, and she smokes them big cigars.
You’re gonna find her drinkin’ boilermakers at the corner bar.
And in 30 seconds flat, she’ll change a flat tire on your car.
Look out –– she’s a liberated lady.

Submitted On: 01/01/75
By: Shel Silverstein

Don’t give a dose to the one you love most.
Give her some marmalade...give her some toast.
You can give her the willies or give her the blues.
But the dose that you give her will get back to youse.

I once had a lady as sweet as a song.
She was my darlin’, and she was my dear.
But she had a dose, and she passed it along.
Now she’s gone, but the dose is still there.

So, don’t give a dose to the one you love most.
Give her some marmalade...give her some toast.
You can give her a partiridge up in a pear tree,
But the dose that you give her might get back to me.

So if you’ve got an itchin’...if you’ve got a drip,
Don’t sit there wishin’ for it to go ’way.
If there’s a thing on the tip of your thing or your lip,
Run down to the clinic today, and say...

"I won’t give a dose to the one I love most.
I’ll give her some marmalade...give her some toast."
Give her the willies or give her the blues,
But the dose that you give her will get back to you.

Submitted On: 01/01/73
The Perfect High
By: Shel Silverstein

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

Submitted On: 07/01/79
By: Shel Silverstein

Originaly Authored by: Shel Silverstein

Come on, baby, grease your lips,
Put on your hat, and shake your hips.
And don’t forget to bring your ships.
We’re goin’ to the Freakers Ball.
Shake your mojo, bang your gong,
Roll up somethin’ to take along.
Feels so good that it must be wrong
Freakin’ at the Freakers Ball.

All the fags and dykes, they’re boogyin’ together
Leather freaks all dressed in leather.
The greatest of the sadists and the masochists, too,
Screamin’ "You hit me" and "I’ll hit you".
F.B.I. dancin’ with the junkies.
All the straights swingin’ with the funkies
’Cross the floor and up the wall.
Freakin’ at the Freakers Ball.

Hard hats and long hairs lovin’ each other.
Brother with sister, son with mother.
Smear my body up with butter.
Take me to the Freakers Ball.
So pass that roach, pour the wine.
I’ll kiss yours and you’ll kiss mine.
I’m gonna boogie til I go blind.
Freakin’ at the Freakers Ball.

Submitted On: 01/01/73
The Smoke Off
By: Shel Silverstein

In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly knew her well.
She’d been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll.
Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk up flat
Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
With long browned lightnin’ fingers he takes a cultured toke
And says, "Hell, I can roll em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!"

So a note gets sent to San Rafael, "For the Championship of the World
The Kid demands a smoke off!" "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl,
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!"
So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price Just two lids a head
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.

See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin’ all together
From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time
To the old man who smoked "reefer" back before it was a crime
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.

Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best.
And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin’ ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there's Hershey’s bars, and Oreos, case anybody gets the munchies.
And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins.
And the drums roll low and the crowd yells "GO!" and the world’s first Smoke Off begins.

Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint’s rolled.
Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that’d paralyze a moose.
And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb’ defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine,
And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin’ fingers, see the red coal burnin’ bright
As the night turns into mornin’ and the mornin’ fades to night
And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
But the two still sit on that roach filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on
With tremblin’ hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
The Kid he gasps, "Goddamn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!"
"Nothin’ left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke?"
"I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!"
And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.

In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly know her well.
She’s been stoned twenty one of her twenty four years, and the story’s widely told.
How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
That says, Beware of Bein’ the Roller When There's Nothin’ Left to Roll.

Submitted On: 01/01/78

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