There once was a boy called Gimmesome Roy;
He was nothing like me or you.
'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid he sat down in the cellar, sniffing aeroplane glue,
And he smoked bananas, which was then the thing to do.
He tried asprin and Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly;
And his life was just one endless search to find the perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lie back
And eat chocolate-chip pizza all night.
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned
Looked like shit in the morning light.
Speed just made him rap all day, and reds just laid him back.
And cocaine rose was sweet to his nose,
But her price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick.
Poppers nearly blew his heart, and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he never remembered it long.
Hashish was just a bit too weak, and smack was a lot too strong.
Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
'Til he heard of a cat, named Baba Fats, who knew the perfect high.
Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall.
But hell, says Roy, I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly.
And I'll find that guru who'll give me a clue as to what's the perfect high.
So up and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he climbs that cliff, then back down again he slides,
Then sits and cries and tries again, persuing that perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak.
And starving and sore and bleeding and torn, he reaches that mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and his voice is the snarl of a rat,
As there, in perfect repose - and wearing no clothes - sits the god-like Baba Fats.
What's happening, Fats, says Roy with joy, I come to state my biz:
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip -- please tell me what it is.
For you can see, says Roy to he, that I'm just about to die.
So for my last ride, Fats, please tell me now: what's the perfect high?
Well dog my cats, says Baba Fats, here's one more burnt-out soul
Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, nor on no chemist's shelf.
Son, if you seek the perfect high, you'll find it in yourself.
You motherfucker, screams Gimmesome Roy, I've climbed through sun and sleet!
I've lost three fingers of my hands and four toes off my feet!
I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now you tell me that the high's in me - what kind of shit is this?!
My ears, before they froze, says Roy, had heard all kinds of crap.
But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to some new age rap.
And I didn't seek you out like this to let you take a pass.
So tell me where the real shit is, or I'll kill your guru ass.
OK, OK, says Baba Fats, you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream.
And in that devil's garden grows the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
And every year in ten it blooms one flower, as white as an Arctic sky.
And he who eats of that Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave, and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high -- it lasts a lifetime, and the down don't ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay that red-eyed giant and then swim the River Of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and beasts, and swim that slimy sea,
There's a blood-sucking witch, who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree.
To hell with your witches and giants, laughs Roy, to hell with the beasts of the sea!
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me.
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five.
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, persuing that perfect high.
Well, that is that, says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
It seems, O Lord, says Baba Fats, they're all the same: old men or bright-eyed youth.
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth.
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