420

I never thought to carry, in a bag,
And in a pocket, pot.  It’s better home,
Or hidden at a friend’s, within a tome
That’s hollow in the center.  Any drag
Is never done in public, or at all
In any place where people couldn’t crash,
And later wake, regretting any rash
And awful choices made within the pall
Of dying inhibition; play it close.
I’ll never understand a growing need
To sneak another hit of hidden weed
In public.  Still, the city’d diagnose
A newer law for any holding pot – 
Don’t ever let us see what you have got.