A cannabis-themed remix of the classic Christmas poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore
Written and read by Feel State® Florissant budtender Jeff Rowse
‘Twas the dab before Christmas, when all thro’ the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Rowse;
Feel State tote bags were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Jah Rastafari soon would be there;
The pre-rolls were nestled all snug in their boxes,
While visions of denied licences danc’d like paradoxes,
And Mama with her vape pen, and I with my bowl,
Had just modified our brains for a long mental stroll,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
It sounded like dabbing with budder or shatter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
And tore open the shutters with the hopes it was hash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Was like a glowing e-nail that shown on the objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an old bearded man with a box full of cheer
Despite his age he was lively and woke
I knew in a moment it must be St. Toke.
More rapid than eagles his products they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
“Now! Sugar, now! Badder, now! Nectar collector,
“On! Rosin, on! Resin, No need for convector!;
“To the top of the sherlock! to the top of the bowl!
“Now smoke away! smoke away! smoke away all!”
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
Exhale the contents, clouds rise to the sky;
So up to the rooftop our grey matter flew,
With a pipeful of product – and St. Tokes-A-Lot, too:
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
What I thought was the prancing and pawing of hoofs.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Toke came with a bound:
He was dress’d all in hemp, from his head to his foot,
And his beard was all tarnish’d with ashes and soot;
A bundle of weed was flung on his back,
And he look’d like a dealer just opening his pack:
His eyes were deep red! his dimples how merry,
He puffed on a spliff that glowed like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of the spliff he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he coughed, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old toker,
And I laugh’d when I saw him, cause I too was a smoker;
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his blunt
Soon gave me to know that St. Toke would front
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And emptied the guts of the blunt with a jerk,
He filled it with flower, and sealed it back shut
And rose up the chimney; my last view was his butt
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like a medicated missile:
But I heard him exclaim, as he flew through the smoke
Happy Cannabis to all, and to all a good toke!