This rock's alluvial;
It's been ground to sand and mud.
This rock's alluvial,
And so now it cannot thud.
Millennia made mud; in it sprouts
Some potent bud.

This crop's hallucinal; when harvest's nigh,
Oh, we will get high.

This crop's alluvial,
Grown in ground-up slurried slime.
If we're found out, we will serve
Some time for such a crime.
But if we are not caught,
This crop will not be a dud.

This rock's alluvial;
Granitic is the clay;
Granted, it's kinda gray--
You know it's lacking serpentine
That would give a hue
Of a greenish-blue.
Also, I think it's lacking lime.

This cop's not jovial;
He shows wroth at crop of buds.
His togs sartorial;
Good cloth in his moth-free duds.

He wishes he had a change as he slogs through the slime.
He's caught; alluvial quagmire
Grabbed 'scheim* it's stuck, his shoe;
Holds whole sole in hole; soiled hose, oh no!. . . .


*Florscheim, a brand of shoe