He Grew Weed in the Loo

He Grew Weed in the Loo

There once was a poet who lived down our street

His habits were odd and his poems were sweet

He cared for his garden, well, sort of, it’s true

For he grew all his weed in the outside loo

The roses were jealous, the nettles just sighed

As clouds of the good stuff went drifting outside

With a flask full of coffee and papers in tow

He sat on the seat where the green leaves would grow

The postman would cough and the milkman would grin

While pigeons looked stoned as they circled the bin

He said with a chuckle, it is peaceful in here

The flush of pure genius and buckets of cheer

So if you should visit and knock on his door

Do not mind if he is vanished, he is out back once more

With his notebook, his lighter and something to chew

Composing his odes in the great outdoor loo