that’s dope

It was a dope sort of day.

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Hannah was feeling down one day,
her head, it throbbed with pain.
So she went to see a doctor,
to fix her hurting brain.
After hours of needles poking,
and an extra set of prods,
He let out a tired sigh,
and laid down his metal rod.
He wheeled to his desk,
spun 360 in his chair,
adjusted his round glasses,
ran his right hand through his hair.
With a click his pen was ready,
with a scribble it was done.
He handed her the note,
and pewpew’d his finger guns.
She squinted at the pad,
she tried close, then she tried far,
but she couldn’t read the thing,
the handwriting too bizarre.
He just sat there goofy grinning,
so finally she asked,
he looked unsure and nervous,
but he answered her at last.
“That’s dope.” He said real soberly,
she’d no idea what he meant,
but it was far to awkward now,
so she quickly turned and left.
Maybe he meant her shirt?
It was crazy cool, the ushe.
Or maybe her rad bangs,
or her hip as hell new shoes.
“What’s the world come to?”,
she asked her friends that night,
and then stared at the wall for eight hours straight,
completely fucking high.