The tax attorney ambles in and sneezes on the blooms.
Her client’s huge dispensary is dank with earthy fumes,
but not a smoker to be found in any of the rooms.
She’s late for her appointment; where’s the paperwork she’ll need?
The pin-striped suited Hatter sits encrusted in his greed.
He’s seeking tax avoidance for his fact’ry farm of weed.
“And how to get around,” he quips, “those governmental regs.”
She grins and sits and wonders if she ought to cross her legs,
then takes her tea cup’s final sip and wipes away its dregs.
“Expensive regulations,” states she smoothly, calming doubt,
“will sanitize the market, pricing smaller growers out.
Killing competition’s what these regs are all about!”
The Hatter looks relieved among his grinders and his glass.
The future now looks bright for his incorporated grass…
how wonderful that government can wipe the corporate ass.
(This original poem was originally published on one of my Steemit profiles.)