There once was a guy named Harry Reid, spent half his life as a centipede, cursed for a sacrilegious deed, cursed by a witch because he peed. The tree was tall, the tree was grand, most sacred tree in all the land. But Harry didn’t know, and he really had to go.
There once was a gal named Sally Mead, who fell in love with a centipede. She was an odd duck, a real rare breed, who was only in the forest freed. She hated tweed and loved to read, shunned parties and smoked too much weed.
The Kush was great, the Kush was grand, dankest weed in all the land. So when the bug became a man, Sally was like, “Ha! I get it, I understan’; ain’t foolin’ me, Mr. Indica Man!” But when the bug began to cite Rousseau, ’twas like lunch with Bill Burrough. They were last seen, if you really must know, holding hands, in love, at a wedding expo.
—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)