There once was a boy called Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you,
Cause laying back & getting high was all he cared to do,
As a kid, he sat down in his cellar sniffing airplane glue,
And then he smoked bananas – which was then the thing to do,
He tried aspirin & Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high,
But grass just made him want to lay back & eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light,
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose but her price nearly broke his back,
He tried PCP & THC but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew is heart & mushrooms made him sick,
And made him see the light, but he never remembered it long,
And hashish was just a little too weak & smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble & booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Boba Fats who knew of the perfect high,
Now Boba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountain, up a sheer & icy wall,
"But hell,” says Roy, “I’m a healthy boy & I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high.”
So out & off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer a cliff no man could climb,
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides,
Then sits…and cries…and climbs again, pursuing that perfect high,
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
Starving, 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 there is perfect repose and wearing no clothes…sits the godlike Boba Fats,
"What’s happenin’, Fats?” says Roy with joy. “I come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is,
For you can see,” says Roy to he "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve that perfect high,”
“Well, dog my cats," says Boba Fats, “here’s one more burnt-out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold,
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you seek the perfect high…find it in your self.”
“Why, you jive mother fucker,” screamed Gimmesome Roy, “I’ve climbed through the rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet,
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss,
Now you tell me the high is in myself, what kind of shit is this?
My ears ‘fore they froze off,” says Roy, “had hear all kinds of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap,
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!"
"Ok, ok,” says Boba Fats, “you’re forcing it out of me,
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Laboli,
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this land there grow the Tzu-Tzu tree,
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of that Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high,
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and hits like the blazing sun,
And the high it last a lifetime and the down don’t ever come,
But the Laboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high,
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by,
And you must slay that red-eyed giant and then swim the river Slim,
Where the mucous beast, they wait to feast on those who journey by,
And if you survive the giants and the beast and swim that shiny sea,
There’s a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree.”
“To hell with your witches and giants,” laughs Roy,
“To hell with the beast of the sea,
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me.”
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high,
“Well, that is that,” says Boba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone,
“It seems, Lord,” says Fats, “it’s all the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth.”