High In The Eighties

Billy Boy Joy, Billy Boy Joy,

We smoked the real McCoy.

Our minds would play tricks as we took our fix

With lungs full of dope.

Our hearts would beat at full speed

As we consumed the weed

To psychedelic moments in the sky.

To tell the truth, it’s a tale of many tales:

It was on Breadline street

Where the youth of the day would meet and play.

The score was Lebanese or Moroccan black.

No stems, no seeds, just pure weed.

Like a door that keeps revolving

In a half-forgotten dream,

Our eyelids were heavy and red

As we danced like the living dead.

Billy Boy Joy, Billy Boy Joy,

The bong was our favoured marijuana toy.

We enjoyed blowbacks, skinning up,

And drinking from the cup.

We were happy and trippy and played like hippies,

Getting the munchies and eating away

Just about anything, I would say.

By golly, we were happy-go-lucky,

Not a care in the world.

Now... don’t bogart that joint,

As I sure would appreciate a hit.