intro chorus x 2 it s the chronic marijuana i think i want a hit take a trip a sip of bomb come along it s just an herb mind s eye opened wide come inside no need to hide it s just the chronic chronic moment it s like the omen givin birth inside your chest invest some time in knowing what the herb can do to a man s soul when inhaled it takes the rest he s impaled it ll leave a person on top of a telephone pole with hekyll and jekyll i know many men who have sold the secret medium my way i light that bowl and lose control of tracks constructed by the conductor never stuck in a permanent high i float around my way wings and things help me to the next plateau i go way too intense with dense ideas i never change i flow rivers of ancient teleportations sent to the nation vis vis via satellite ear to ear from here to there they feel the beat he he don t be shy i m really a quiet guy just try look what it does for an introvert i flirt with mary jane and burn her body for the feeling in a pipe i won t complain marijuana i think i need a hit i take a trip a sip of bomb come along it s just an herb mind s eye opened wide come inside no need to hide  it s just a crowded room full of people having tripped out conversations no one s up to getting over the edge that last hit dropped the eggs from my basket now i m asking dude let s let s go outside real quick man what s wrong with you man man let s just go outside real quick fuck it i m fucked up dude aight aight let s go smoke paranoid pacing outside waiting for a cigarette to bring down my high beware boy the one drunk punk hey i can with endurance when he talks he doesn t give a fuck swing low i crouch down below should have left the last hit to the homie with the tolerance mary jane s the bitch they pitch when slangin bags for back support barely sane i hand them twenty that ll be plenty relax and sport that sack in the back when the show s in progress my heart s pressed against my chest and the mic s in hand i bite my bottom lip and watch them trip i m ripped x 2 open mind open lungs open eyes open hands to hold the bowl hold for the urn turn to ashes and urn earn your keep or mary won t have nowhere to sleep there s something about mary i can t seem to keep stick to the beats of the midnight hours smokin a bowl before i go in slo mo creepin around the bend not a snake in the grass so i fiend for green call me a fan with a hand on the pipe who like the smell what the hell like s the felling what you dealin x 2 it s just the chronic 