Sonnet Eleven

A marijuana cigarette when smoked
Induces a hypnotic form of lust.
Ten minutes past the point where one has toked,
No more is God the object of one’s trust

Unless of course one trusted not at all
In God forever distant from one’s sight.
In such a case one’s vice is not a fall
From such a grace as vices might ignite

And so from vice to vice one has one’s fill.
When joy departs from one vice it descends
Upon another and another still,
In vicious virile swirls, it never ends.

So push the envelope until it’s packed
And thank the Lord your brain is still intact.