’Twas the night before April 20th, when all through the pad, Not a creature was stirring—not even dad; The bongs were packed neatly by chimney with care, In hopes that the dank soon would be there; The homies were all posted, snug in their beds, While visions of sticky-icky danced in their heads; And shawty in her nightgown, and I in some shorts, Had just fried our brains for a long, smoky doze— When out in the alley there rose such a clatter, I rolled from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tripped over a drawer, then dropped all my stash. The moon on the street gave a hazy green glow, To the sidewalks and rooftops and lowriders below; When what to my bloodshot eyes did appear, But a big green Chevy van, “Sweet & Low” on the rear. With a laid-back old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Cheech Marin; And more mellow than ever, his partner rolled through— That hazy-eyed legend, Tommy Chong too. And then, with a chuckle, and smoke in the air, They called out their strains like a carnival fair: “Now Blue Dream! Now OG! Now Gelato, Cookies! On Kush! On Gorilla Glue! Roll up them goodies! Come one and come all, to the Fiberweed van! Grab what you need, take as much as you can! Now light it! Now spark it! Now pass it around! Let the whole block get lifted, send good vibes abound!” As nugs that before a wildfire might burn, Get packed into bowls and then patiently turned, So out from their houses the homies all came, With bags in their hands and a thirst for the flame— And I heard them laugh loud as they cruised out of sight: “Stay lifted, stay chill—and to all a good night!”
