Hello Harvest, my old friend,
I've come to clip with you again,
Because a Gnome softly creeping,
Left his scissors while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain,
Still remains,
Within the sound of Harvest.
In restless dreams I snipped alone,
Narrow leaves that I had grown,
'Neath the halo of a big grow lamp,
I turned my scissors to the green and damp,
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a butane light,
That lit the pipes,
And touched the sound of Harvest.
And in the naked light I saw,
Ten thousand buds maybe more.
Buds drying without stems,
Buds drying without seeds,
People rolling joints that they always share,
And no one dared,
Disturb the sound of Harvest.
"Fools" said I,
"You do not know, bud rot like a cancer grows,
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Smoke my plants that I might reach you"
But my words like fan leaves fell,
And echoed,
In the wells of Harvest.
And the people borrowed and paid
For the big bud I had made
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming
And the signs said,
"Get it while it's still here, its better than beer,
A nickle bag will do you,
And whisper'd in the sounds of Harvest.
tell Neil Simon, he wrote it. I just jacked the words to fit my stoner mind. 
