A small single apartment That is all I really need. The result of low ambition And a paucity of greed. A kitchen for cooking A comfy place to sleep Just great for meditation for Thoughts that don’t go deep.
It was close to my buddies That good old gang of mine I go there, they come here, As long as there was wine. I was serving jug wine And vintage it was not. I had to switch to *** when My stomach started to rot.
I also served cheap beer, The cheapest I could find. Between the wine and beer It’s lucky today I’m not blind. And food was also frugal Mostly chips and salsa hot. Stoners aren’t that choosy. Gourmands we were not.
Of course we all had our own Personal marijuana stash. Its quality depended on The amount of available cash. But one of us was a dealer Or sometimes there were two. They always brought a supply To sell, that’s what they do.
We laughed and roared and Someone always had a guitar It is nineteen seventy two And that’s how conditions are. Some of us had jobs back then But most were floating around. It’s hard to be a stable soul With no feet on the ground.