December 31st of twenty-eleven;
Wound up in a place not so much like heaven.
No celebration - just cards and some chess,
Reflecting on how I got into this mess.
I must confess, I thought it'd be worse;
Violence and **** followed up with a hearse.
But my inmates were kind, despite their transgressions;
Most of them hauled in on counts of possession.
Fiends all around me, missing their dope;
Counting the days with a glimmer of hope.
It made me depressed, though I could relate;
Recounting the highs and how now they abate.
As I lay in my cell on that cold wintry eve,
I found it a bit easier to believe
That I ****** myself dearly, right in the ***;
But I mustn't forget that this too shall pass.