one day james joyce approached me and said
[yo beta you wanna get fucked in the head?
smoke some wacky tobaccy out back of my dad's shed?
don't worry, he won't catch us. My dad's fuckin' dead.]
so i said word. but not your shit
the shit you grow smells like a turd and I can't smoke it.
But it's ok, I know this guy who lives in a parking garage on elm street
he's about 300 pounds, smell's whack and wears a helmet
but this motherfucker's so good at street pharmacism
you'll skip screamin for your mama and go straight to dadaism.
He claims to have developed a process by which weed, meth, and krokodil
can be chemically fused on a molecular level
and then he cuts that with coke to really get your blood boiling
shit's more laced than a wedding dress made out of doiles
for added effect he reccommends rolling the joint with tin foil
and prior to lighting it greasing yourself up with oil

[well shit dude, this sounds dope. Get it?
Let's get in my car, you can tell me where we're heading]
so we got in james beat up old beatpoetmobile and beat feet,
or wheels, as it were, to elm street
we climbed eleven levels to the top of the garage
and bought a fat bag of chronic off a fat lard in a Ferrari
[shit bro this looks dope. Get it?]
Stop that. it wasn't funny the first time. Fagoot.
clutching our stash of dank kush or hash or whatever it was
we dashed back to james's crappy chrysler and blasted back to his house
tiptoed to the rear of his dad's shed waited till no one was near and then
sprayed cans of Pam all over each other just like that fatass said
unpacked the baggie lickety spliff. i rolled a joint, james took a sniff
[damn this smells almost as good as my wifes farts. I love that shit.
I fuck 'em out of her, big fat fellows and merry little cracks gush from her hole
I think I'd know her farts anywhere, I could probably pick her's out in a room full of farting women]
whoa, shut up, dog, I don't need to know

james takes a hit and turns a little green
so i ask him hey man, are you okay dude? what are you seeing?
[I'm fine] he says [I think I'm okay, it's just
riverrun past adam and eve's from swerve of shore to bend of bay

this is the part where you turn to page 45 in your copy of Finnegan's Wake and read the lyrics your damn self. I don't feel like typing them out. If you don't have a copy, buy one. It's a fascinating piece of English-language literature, if not actually a "good read", per se. I recommend the Penguin Classics edition with the intro by John Bishop. Bishop gives a lot of insight into what the fuck Joyce might have been thinking when he wrote this shit, as well as some ideas on how to approach reading it, and it'll help a lot if this is your first dainty toe into the waters of James Joyce's fucketyfuckfucked brainspace.