There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy
He was nothing like me or you
Cause laying back and getting high
Was all he cared to do.
As a kid he sat in the celler &ldots;
sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked banana peels,
when that was the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca Cola
He breathed helium on the sly
And his life became an endless search
To find the perfect high
But grass just made him wanna lay back
and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote when he was stoned,
looked like shit in the morning light
Speed made him wanna rap all day,
Reds laid him too far back,
Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose,
But the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP, he tried THC,
but they never did the trick.
Poppers nearly blew his heart,
Mushrooms made him sick,
Acid made him see the light,
But he couldn't remember it long.
Hash was a little too weak,
and smack was a lot too strong.
Qualudes made him stumble,
Booze just made him cry,
Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fat
Who knew of the perfect high.
Now, Baba Fat was a hermit cat &ldots;
Lived high up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountain top
Up a sheer and icy wall.
"Well, Hell!" Says Roy,
"I'm a healthy boy,
And I'll crawl or climb or fly,
Till I find that guru who'll give me a clue
As to what's the perfect high."
Sou out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy,
To the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer,
To a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he climbed that cliff &ldots;
Back down he'd slide &ldots;.
He'd sit and cry, then climb some more,
Pursuing that perfect high.
Grinding his teeth, coughing blood,
Aching and shaking and weak,
Starving and sore, bleeding and tore,
He reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red
Like a snow-blind wolf,
And he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As therein repose
And wearing no clothes,
Sits the god like Baba Fats.
"What's happenin', Fats?"
says Roy with joy,
"I've come to state my biz &ldots;.
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip &ldots;.
Please tell me what it is.
"For you can see," says Roy to he,
"I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me,
how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats.
"Another burned out soul.
Who's lookin' for an alchemist
to turn his trip to gold.
It isn't in the dealer's stash,
or on a druggist's shelf &ldots;.
Son, if you would find the perfect high,
Find it in yourself."
"Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy,
"I climbed through rain and sleet,
I froze the fingers off my hands,
And four toes off my feet!
I braved the lair of the polar bear,
I've tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself?
What kind of shit is this?
My ears, before they froze off," say Roy,
"had heard all kinds of crap;
But I didn't climb fourteen years
to hear your sophomore rap.
And I didn't climb up here
to hear that that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is,
or I'll kill your guru ass!"
"Okay &ldots; okay," says Baba Fats,
"You're forcin' it outta me &ldots;
There is a land beyond the sun
That's known as Zabolee.
A wretched land of stone and sand,
Where snakes and buzzards screem,
And in the devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree.
Now, once every ten years
It blooms one flower,
As white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower
Shall know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on
Like a tidal wave &ldots;
Hits like the blazin' sun.
And the high?
It lasts forever,
And the down don't never come.
But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant,
Who stands twelve cubits high,
And with eyes of red
In his hundred heads,
He waits the passer-by.
And you must slay the red eyed giant,
And swim the river of slime,
Where the mucus beast waits
To feast on those who journey by.
And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea,
There's a blood-drinking witch
Who sharpens her teeth
As she guards the Tzutzu tree."
"Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy,
"To hell with the beasts of the sea -
Why as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms,
Hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy
In his sun blind eyes
He slips the guru five,
And crawls back down the mountain side,
Pursuing the perfect high.
"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats,
Sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years
Of talking to God alone.
"Yes, Lord, it's always the same &ldots;
Old men or bright-eyed youth &ldots;
It's easier to sell 'em some shit
Than it is to tell them the truth.