Tommy’s poem

This is the season of planting pot,

twenty such seasons and what have I got?

A knot in my back and my guts in a knot,

every single season of planting pot.

Struggle up the mountain with soil on my back

black biting flies buzzing ‘bout my crack,

slick plastic sacks on a stump in a stack,

give the forest soil all the richness it lack.

Here I miss my family and pray they are fine

and wish they could be with me in the bright sunshine

and how I miss my darling, sweet woman of mine,

but deer and rats and ravens keep me in the pine.

Will they seed and green and grow?

Will they in a googlespace show?

Is this the year the cops will go?

Will there be an early snow?

All the summer long I sit under the sky,

my little girls grow up under my watchful eye,

how my heart hammers when the helicopters fly,

ranger, pirate, hiker passing by.

But sun rise sun set then comes fall,

fat fragrant ganja waving and tall,

mightier than governments which some day fall,

emerald magic in the sun is well worth it all.

Handshakes and money, the best bud goes to town,

but bags of baby buds and sugar calyx down,

for my brothers and our cousins when winter comes roun,

for birthdays and feast days and for getting down.

This is how we growers pay our bills,

watching over pot growing in the hills,

there is no glamour, there are no thrills,

this is how we brothers pay our bills.

This is the season for growing pot,

help from the government- ha! Thanks alot!

Sweet mother ganja gives me all I got,

into the mountains to plant some pot.