Meth Cooks Poem

This is your life, its so intense. It leaves you wondering what happened, it doesn't make sense. Your folks have told you about the birds and the bees. So I'm going to tell you about the cops and the trees.
Weather you slam it, snort it, smoke it through a glass. It will always come back and knock you on your ass.
The Meth Monster knows you're sick. First it's your friends, and then it's your wife. You're convinced you don't need them; they're trashing your life.
Then one day you realize and see. They're all part of a conspiracy. You hide in your house, best friends you avoid.
You're a strung out sucker, straight paranoid. Now this stuff has taken a nasty turn. You jumped into the fire, and started to burn.
What once was for kicks, now seems all so real. So you get a brainstorm and think "Hey, I should deal".
Now your time is spent just making your rounds. You started with quarters, then ounces, now pounds. Now you're in the chapter of the crankster's sick book. Knowing from the start there's going to be trouble. You sit spinning in your lab watching it bubble. Now you're being watched by the Feds and DTF.
You still wanna cook that meth. Then one night you're minding your store. Twenty-one policeman come crashing through the door. They bum rush you, stick a knee in your chest, SCREAM. Freeze you junkie, you're under arrest.
Now you're going to court with your public pretender. You'd have a better chance sticking your head in a blender. The Judge won't make a deal, He'll give twenty to life. So you call home collect, and your buddy's with your wife. Now you're walking the prison yard, you look back and reflect.
How did my life get so screwed up and wrecked?. Then a flash in my head like a big neon sign says. I think I'll get out and cook just one last time.