Dearest Smokin Mom,
Please forgive my lovesick brethren. It is obvious that your wit and beauty have stirred the male arrousal. Your intellect is like a 1,000 watt HPS lamp. Your eyes, I'm sure, are like two pools of pH 5.5 water nourished by hydroponic nutrients. Your hair flows like flowering sativa and your lips make me jealous of your preferred smoking instrument. In all, you leave me intoxicated and couch-locked like the finest indica. That you belong and love another is a heartbreak to me and a long line of forlorn, would-be suitors. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.
Mr. Greengenes
(And that, my friends, is how one should sing the praises of lady. Now get your hand off your crotch and get back to the plow. We got mj to grow).