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Weed

We went to France with a pot head,
the son of a good friend of ours.
Our families travelled together,
towing caravans, driving for hours.

Our son, was the only one with us,
they took their own son, and his friend.
Although their son’s mate was quite normal,
their son, drove us all ‘round the bend’.

At night the lads went out together,
determined that they’d have some fun,
but Philip, the lad who’s a druggy,
would take them where dealing was done.

My son Dan, and Phil’s own mate, told him,
that drugs ‘always’ damage the mind,.
Alas, Phil was messed up already,
so just wanted to mix with his kind.

By day both his parents were lovely,
but their son gave them nothing but hell,
they tried to control his behaviour,
but all he would do was rebel.

He ruined their three week vacation,
there was little that they didn’t try,
and Haley, his mother, spent hours,
just sitting alone, where she’d cry.

I’m writing this poem for Philip,
to show him the hurt and the pain
his habit is causing his family,
just what does he think he will gain.

A man doesn’t need drugs to lean on,
maybe, he thinks it is just fun.
One day, if he’s lucky, he’ll wake up,
but can never put right what he’s done.

Ivor G Davies

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