סיפור נחמד עם מוסר השכל
לכל מי שמחפש איזו אמת
The Perfect High
There once was a boy called Gimmesome Roy, who 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,
Then later he smoked bananas, which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin and coca-cola, breathed helium on the sly,
But his life was one endless search to find the PERFECT HIGH.
Grass just made him want to lye back and eat chocolate-chip -pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote whilst stoned, looked like shit in the morning light.
Speeds just made him rap all day, and reds just laid him back,
The 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.
Poppers nearly blew his mind and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long,
Hashish was a little too weak, and smac- a lot too strong!
Qualudes 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 is a hermit cat who lives up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell, says Roy, I'm a healthy boy, I'll crawl or climb or fly
But I'll find that guru who will give me a clue as to what's the PERFECT HIGH!"
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a hill no man could conquer, up a cliff no man could climb
For nineteen years he tries that cliff and back 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 shaking and aching and weak,
As bleeding and tore, and stiff and sore, he reaches that mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red as the snow wolf, and he snarls the snarls of a rat,
There, in Perfect Repose
And wearing no clothes,
Sat the godlike Baba Fats!
"What's happ'nin' 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 an alchemist to turn his trip to gold,
But you won't find it in no dealers' stash or on no druggist's shelf,
Son if you seek the PERFECT HIGH, you'll find it in your Self!"
"Why-you fine motherfucker! I've climbed through rain and sleet,
I've lost three fingers of my hands and four toes of my feet,
I've braved the hair of the polar bear and I've tasted the maggot's kiss,
And now you tell me that the high is in my self,
What kind of shit is this?
My ears before they froze off, says Roy, have heard all kind of crap,
But I didn't climb for nineteen years to listen to this sophamore rap.
And I didn't climb for nineteen years to find that the high is on the match,
So just you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"
"Okay, okay, says Baba fats, you're forcing it out of me,
There is a land beyond the sky known as zaboli,
A wreckland where snakes and buzzards scream
But in that devil's garden grows the mystic tss-tss tree,
And the tss-tss tree, once every ten years it blooms one flower
As white as the keywest sky,
And he who eats of the tss-tss flower, will know of 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 you must shy this red-eyed giant and swim that slimy sea
Where mucas beasts, they wait to feast as they guard the tss-tss tree!"
"To hell with your witches and giants, laughs Roy, to hell with the beasts of the sea,
As long as the tss-tss flower still blooms, some hope still blooms for me!"
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eyes Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back again down the mountain he slides, pursuing the PERFECT HIGH.
"Well, that is that, says Baba Fats as he sits back again on his throne,
Pursuing another thousand years of talking to g-d alone,
It's hard, says Fats, it's all the same: old men or bright-eyed youth,
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to tell the truth!"
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