As the clock strikes four-twenty, the world goes awry,
With whispers of “Let’s blaze, oh my!”
A ritual begins, with snacks in hand,
In this stoner's paradise, we all take a stand.
First comes the ritual, the sacred herb,
Like wizards we gather, with giggles to blurb.
The lighter ignites, and laughter takes flight,
As we chant “High noon!” with delight and fright.
Then we settle in, for the munchie parade,
Chips, salsa, and cookies, our feast is displayed.
But oh what’s this? Someone eats the last fry!
The ensuing drama could make Shakespeare sigh.
The room starts to swirl, the couch now a boat,
We all just float, on a wave of pure smoke.
With pot-themed discussions, so deep yet so light,
“What if cats could talk? Would they be polite?”
The clock it ticks on, through laughter and cheer,
As stoner philosophy radiates near.
But beware, dear friends, of the dreaded “munchies,”
For they sneak up fast, like imaginary bunnies.
So here’s to the hour, where all cares take flight,
At 4:20 we gather, igniting the night.
With good vibes and laughter, we’ll always abide,
In this whimsical world where our hearts open wide.
Hazy Humor is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
