There once was a man from Nantucket.
He stored all his weed in a bucket.
Kept to himself, but the neighbors? They smelled.
And when the cops came, he would truck it.

The man put his weed on a dish.
Decided he would like to squish
all of the pot to make rosin. A lot.
To make hash was his only true wish.

Loaded his press with a pouch.
When smashing nugs, he was no slouch.
Maximum yields bring hashberry fields.
I smile and relax on the couch.

I’d sometimes write him a fan letter.
I crown him the king with a scepter.
He gave weed a squash while he’d let me watch.
Called his hash the the Nantucket Nectar.