Pop a few Bukowskis to set the day off right
And sip a little Hemingway to keep me feeling bright
Smoking on that Ginsberg, mind is opening wide

Doing lines of Robert Louis Stevenson,
and a Hookah full of Baudelaire
Ingesting Kerouac, it feels good I swear
Coleridge into my lungs, floating on thick air
Shooting up some Burroughs, my literary affair

I begin to lose sight of reality, taking some Cocteau
Tripping with the Kesey, my life is nearly through
A final hit of Huxley as transcendence I try to pursue

But old Walt Whitman, is where I say adieu.