Lord Jesus, guard my ganja as I pray
For something next to sustenance with cream
Deluge the world; let dryness fade away
To Utah, or the valley of the dream
The dream contained within a subtle cough
The air we breathe begets what we exhale
Of course it does, and wipes the mucus off
Organic bars of some organic jail
Lord Jesus, guard the ganja in the box
On which you hang affixed by Roman nails
And super glue bequeathed by golden socks
The socks of gold where liquor never fails
To see the secret puffs and hits and drags
Beneath the lighters hidden in their bags.