Five-A-Day Magic Mushooms

The bulbous deep, deep, emerald magic mushrooms no longer looked so magical,

Not for a long time.

He'd been "borrowing" them from next door's back-garden

(when they were asleep at night),

for around four years or so now.
Church goers too!
He smiled: You can never tell by looking at people:
Church goers growing magic mushrooms!

And for four years he's smoked them,
Snorted them,
Curried them,
Even boiled them once -

Like a vegetable,

And they tasted absolutely vile when cooked.

Bleeugh!

But did they transport him to the sitar-reverb realms of Nirvana;

Strings plucked by Buddha, Krishna, Hendrix?

Uh no. No they didn't.

These so-called magic mushrooms,
Never, ever, opened any Huxleyan Doors of Perception,
Rhapsodies of Eternal Light never danced hypnotically behind his third eye,

Or even his two ordinary ones for that matter.

At one with Creation? Never!
No angels ever sang,
Or higher beings telepathically communicated.

His dead pet cat never returned as The Sphinx.

No messages from beyond the grave ever offered direction or wisdom,
or mystical revelation;

Secrets he would then delightfully share with this philistine wasteland.

So he resolved never to touch these over-rated fungi again.
He walked to his garden bin,

And threw them all away - for the last time.

The last time ever.
"I'll stick to supermarket cider from now on.."

He closed the lid and walked back in thoroughly dejected,

Kicking a defenceless garden gnome by the porch door.

His next door neighbour watched him from their bedroom window.
"Sue, come here, Look at this!
The cheek of it!
He's been stealing our broccoli for four years,

Now he's throwing it all away,

And he's just kicked his garden gnome!

He told me he's a Buddhist Druid.

What kind of Buddhist Druid steals broccoli and attacks garden gnomes?"