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the Himalayas rise there is snow on the peaks I watch it from my bed I gaze and gaze at it in the morning as a little village girl goes by sniffling with cold I too am cold it is chilly here in Tosh in May but a young Israeli boy took off his shirt and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing down was the deep green valley all of us watched in admiration the next day I went down to the waterfall which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air there are donkeys and a path and pretty houses on the other side of the valley and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing in the cafes and the guesthouses it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming and sit around smoking talking I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back feel the chill despite a thick sweater despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt I roll my joints and smoke them alone sometimes smoke them with others I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight with his young Spanish friend I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur who’ve come here on a Bullet Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on to the four engineering interns from Delhi and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair she left behind last night because it was too dark come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
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Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
indian-hippie
From My Window Here In Tosh
the Himalayas rise there is snow on the peaks I watch it from my bed I gaze and gaze at it in the morning as a little village girl goes by sniffling with cold I too am cold it is chilly here in Tosh in May but a young Israeli boy took off his shirt and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing down was the deep green valley all of us watched in admiration the next day I went down to the waterfall which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air there are donkeys and a path and pretty houses on the other side of the valley and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing in the cafes and the guesthouses it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming and sit around smoking talking I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back feel the chill despite a thick sweater despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt I roll my joints and smoke them alone sometimes smoke them with others I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight with his young Spanish friend I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur who’ve come here on a Bullet Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on to the four engineering interns from Delhi and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair she left behind last night because it was too dark come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
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It was the glen of jabberwocky, Deep within the twaddle mire. The gobbledygook was being spewed By the grand codswallop, The tripe was drivel And all manner of blethered haver Did most piffle & bosh. The great imperial hooey of guff-phooey Visited with bunk, There was to be a festivity of the tommyrot; On the morrow we would dribble bull Till the cobblers called tosh, **** cod, And said their applesauce. No malarkey here crosses their fingers, For all the liars have bellywash And work the flapdoodle with bunkum & bushwa. All the poppycocks we laid out For the celebration of the gibberish, When mumbo jumbo hung a more, Low & long. On the fens of the balderdash, At the mouth of the babble, We sang the song of argle-bargle By our native tongue jargon. It was first rate flummery By the standards of the order of palaver, The prime wheedlers of gab & fanster.
0
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC
manx-kronos-pragna
Yet, No One Could Understand Us!
It was the glen of jabberwocky, Deep within the twaddle mire. The gobbledygook was being spewed By the grand codswallop, The tripe was drivel And all manner of blethered haver Did most piffle & bosh. The great imperial hooey of guff-phooey Visited with bunk, There was to be a festivity of the tommyrot; On the morrow we would dribble bull Till the cobblers called tosh, **** cod, And said their applesauce. No malarkey here crosses their fingers, For all the liars have bellywash And work the flapdoodle with bunkum & bushwa. All the poppycocks we laid out For the celebration of the gibberish, When mumbo jumbo hung a more, Low & long. On the fens of the balderdash, At the mouth of the babble, We sang the song of argle-bargle By our native tongue jargon. It was first rate flummery By the standards of the order of palaver, The prime wheedlers of gab & fanster.
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