Patri's World: Betrothed Stoner (Kipling Parody)

This is a parody of Kipling's marvelous poem "The Betrothed", which is famous for the immortal line: "A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke." His intro claims that the poem is based on a breach of betrothal case in england, and it is about a man who has been asked to choose between his fiancee and his cigar habit. The poem, which is a bit of a parody in and of itself, didn't really need to be parodied, but I thought it would prove amusing to make a version in which tobacco has been replaced by marijuana. You can decide whether I was right. The original lyrics appear on the right half of the table. If you haven't read the original poem before, you should see it in isolation first, it can be found here.

The Betrothed Stoner The Betrothed

Patri Friedman Rudyard Kipling

"Stop smoking weed, or I'm finding a new boyfriend!"

- Fictional Incident, circa 1990's

"You must choose between me and your cigar."

-Breach of Promise case, circa 1885.

Open the fragrant bud-box, fetch me some Jamaican Gold,
for things are feeling heavy, and Maggie has gotten cold. OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Hawaiian, we fought o'er the magic grass,
And she says I'm a hippy freak, and I know she's being an ass. We quarreled about Havanas - we fought o'er a good cheroot -
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the pungent bud-box, let me stare into space,
through the soft green cloud of vapour, musing on Maggies face. Open the old cigar-box - let me consider a space,
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is groovy to look at, sure, she's a righteous lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must fatten, the dopest of loves must pass. Maggie is pretty to look at - Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a pile of ganja, there's calm in a long slow toke,
But the fattest bowl in a minute is cashed into ashes and smoke - There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away -

Cashed - then you just fill another, as perfect and ripe and green
I could not empty out Maggie for fear of being thought mean. Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown -
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my babe at fifty, boring, no longer hot,
with never another Maggie, no matter how many C-notes I got! Maggie, my wife at fifty - grey and dour and old -
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold.

And the dark of Days that Are, the sparks of Days that have Passed
And Loves lighter stinking and stale, like the ashes of burnt-out grass. And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar -

The ashes of burnt-out grass you are bound to keep in your bowl,
With never more weed to pack, though its charred and black and old. The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket -
With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket.

Open the fragrant bud-box, let me consider a while
Here is a new-rolled reefer - there is a wifely smile. Open the old cigar-box - let me consider a while;
Here is a mild Manilla - there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better deal, a ring chaining me to Maggie,
or a bevy of leafy buddies, tied up in in a plastic baggie? Which is the better portion - bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counselers cunning and silent, comforters tried indeed,
and never a leaf of the clump to sneer at some rival weed. Counselors cunning and silent - comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thoughts that dance and flicker, solace in times of woe,
peace at a Grateful Dead concert, balm at every Phish show. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the quarter-ounce give me, undemanding, quiet, shy,
Fully content with its duty - make the smoke that gets me high. This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee's passion - to do their duty and burn.

This will the quarter-ounce give me, and when its all been puffed,
I'll order a few more ounces, and if thats not enough This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far off Jamaica, the Netherlands' famous fields,
When they hear my bag is empty, will send their resiny yield. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I don't got to buy them clothes, nor feed their munchies at all,
So long as the screen ain't clogged, so long as my pipe still draws. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouth withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will bubble 'em through cold water, with a bong I will temper my hash,
and the hippy and dope fiend shall envy who hear the tale of my stash. I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written some email, and I got to choose today -
the wee little whimpering Love, or the goddess Mary J. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I've been serving Love for a little more than a year,
But I've been a Priest of the Buddha since before I even drank beer. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is filled with the herbal scent
of joints that I smoked to friendship (and sold, to pay the rent) And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship, and Pleasure, and Work, and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future for which this is preparation,
But the only light I see is - wait, thats a hallucination. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

It may stay for this afternoons journey, but then it'll go away
Since a little weed can create it, who cares what it has to say? Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the fragrant bud-box - let me get back to the point -
Sweet buds, and who is Maggie that I should quit puffin' joints? Open the old cigar-box - let me consider anew -
Old friends, and who is Maggie, that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the load
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Joint gets you Stoned. A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another spliff - I hold to my earliest puff
If Maggie won't hang with a stoner, I guess she ain't my love. Light me another Cuba - I hold to my first-sworn vows,
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!

Up to Patri's Poetry Page...

Last Modified: 3/2000

Patri Friedman / pforwalt@hmc.edu

The Betrothed Stoner	The Betrothed
Patri Friedman	Rudyard Kipling
"Stop smoking weed, or I'm finding a new boyfriend!" - Fictional Incident, circa 1990's	"You must choose between me and your cigar." -Breach of Promise case, circa 1885.
Open the fragrant bud-box, fetch me some Jamaican Gold, for things are feeling heavy, and Maggie has gotten cold.	OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Hawaiian, we fought o'er the magic grass, And she says I'm a hippy freak, and I know she's being an ass.	We quarreled about Havanas - we fought o'er a good cheroot - And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the pungent bud-box, let me stare into space, through the soft green cloud of vapour, musing on Maggies face.	Open the old cigar-box - let me consider a space, In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is groovy to look at, sure, she's a righteous lass, But the prettiest cheeks must fatten, the dopest of loves must pass.	Maggie is pretty to look at - Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a pile of ganja, there's calm in a long slow toke, But the fattest bowl in a minute is cashed into ashes and smoke -	There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away -
Cashed - then you just fill another, as perfect and ripe and green I could not empty out Maggie for fear of being thought mean.	Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown - But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie, my babe at fifty, boring, no longer hot, with never another Maggie, no matter how many C-notes I got!	Maggie, my wife at fifty - grey and dour and old - With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold.
And the dark of Days that Are, the sparks of Days that have Passed And Loves lighter stinking and stale, like the ashes of burnt-out grass.	And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar -
The ashes of burnt-out grass you are bound to keep in your bowl, With never more weed to pack, though its charred and black and old.	The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket - With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket.
Open the fragrant bud-box, let me consider a while Here is a new-rolled reefer - there is a wifely smile.	Open the old cigar-box - let me consider a while; Here is a mild Manilla - there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better deal, a ring chaining me to Maggie, or a bevy of leafy buddies, tied up in in a plastic baggie?	Which is the better portion - bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counselers cunning and silent, comforters tried indeed, and never a leaf of the clump to sneer at some rival weed.	Counselors cunning and silent - comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.
Thoughts that dance and flicker, solace in times of woe, peace at a Grateful Dead concert, balm at every Phish show.	Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.
This will the quarter-ounce give me, undemanding, quiet, shy, Fully content with its duty - make the smoke that gets me high.	This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee's passion - to do their duty and burn.
This will the quarter-ounce give me, and when its all been puffed, I'll order a few more ounces, and if thats not enough	This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far off Jamaica, the Netherlands' famous fields, When they hear my bag is empty, will send their resiny yield.	The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.
I don't got to buy them clothes, nor feed their munchies at all, So long as the screen ain't clogged, so long as my pipe still draws.	I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouth withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will bubble 'em through cold water, with a bong I will temper my hash, and the hippy and dope fiend shall envy who hear the tale of my stash.	I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written some email, and I got to choose today - the wee little whimpering Love, or the goddess Mary J.	For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I've been serving Love for a little more than a year, But I've been a Priest of the Buddha since before I even drank beer.	And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is filled with the herbal scent of joints that I smoked to friendship (and sold, to pay the rent)	And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship, and Pleasure, and Work, and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future for which this is preparation, But the only light I see is - wait, thats a hallucination.	And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
It may stay for this afternoons journey, but then it'll go away Since a little weed can create it, who cares what it has to say?	Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?
Open the fragrant bud-box - let me get back to the point - Sweet buds, and who is Maggie that I should quit puffin' joints?	Open the old cigar-box - let me consider anew - Old friends, and who is Maggie, that I should abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the load And a woman is only a woman, but a good Joint gets you Stoned.	A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another spliff - I hold to my earliest puff If Maggie won't hang with a stoner, I guess she ain't my love.	Light me another Cuba - I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!