When I went walking around the sunny-side of town

an old guy, face like death-cometh, beckoned, said,

“Son, come on over…Why don’t I smoke you down?”

No thought needed. I shrugged, said, “I’m free right now.”

Off the walk and down an alley the old guy led

when I went walking around the sunny-side of town.

Into a dark room in a broken building he served it with a bow,

“A little for you, for me, this, our daily bread…

Son, come on over…Why don’t I smoke you down?”

Took a taste, neural synapses started to drown.

Something funny in what I smoked to lay me in a bed

when I went walking around the sunny-side of town.

I shook awake and ran as fast as feet would allow!

Crazed and red, the old guy hooted and hollered as I fled,

“Son, come on over…Why don’t I smoke you down?”

Into the bright of day, I blended with the street’s crowd,

though forever, I think, the invitation will run through my head:

“Son, come on over…Why don’t I smoke you down?”

When I went walking around the sunny-side of town.