In the French graveyard the air is stale,
Like a room without a window opened
For many days, with raw vile pies laid out,
A gang of evil ninjas smoke ganja,
Dressed chin down in all black to blend into the
Night, they mourn their comrades buried postwar,
Tied together by a bond of wars fought,
They feel sick to be alive when their friends
Passed and not them, they play music in vial,
Knowing the decent to the afterlife
Has already begun, essence of ghosts
Gives chills that pipe of weed suppresses,
Like a leaf being gently swept downstream,
Calmness washes over the tensed bodies,
The sum of the battles show in their eyes,
The gang lays ten cents on graves for payment
To passage to heaven for their fallen
Friends, one last gift of appreciation,
Smell of fried drugs rots the air around them,
Like radar, guides enemies right to them,
Foes peep from the icy night screaming loud,
Like a large sound system cranked to full blast,
Rivals still dusty from the earlier
Fight are dashing toward the gang rapidly,
Ripe for battle, lives hinge on reaction,
Reaction slowed by the pot doom the gang,
Society calls them scum for smoking,
But soon enough they will not have to fret,
The gang will join the fallen in graveyard
Cities, the warriors are upon them.
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