Once a fellow had a scheme
That would help him reach his dream.
He had wealth in timberlands
That brought money to his hands.
They made pulp that he could use,
For he also printed news.
But there was one thing he cursed,
Good old William Randolph Hearst.

Hemp is good for pulp as well.
Many farms grew it to sell.
It competes with wood from trees,
And it’s grown with greater ease.
He despised this simple crop,
Dreamed of how he’d make it stop,
So a campaign he rehearsed,
Planned by William Randolph Hearst.

There was one variety
That was high in THC.
Mexicans would smoke the leaves,
Since discomfort it relieves.
Stir up hatred for the plant,
Link it with the immigrant.
People would believe the worst.
So thought William Randolph Hearst.

Heard a song once in a bar:
“Marihuana que fumar.”
Saw how he could play the game,
“Marijuana” its new name.
In his papers he would rant
On the dangers of the plant
Till he was about to burst,
Ranted William Randolph Hearst.

It was an addictive drug,
Turned a good man to a thug,
On its smokers it would work,
Made them violent and berserk.
Spoken, in a lethargic voice: Hey, man. Kill. Maim. Whatever.
Finally a chance he saw
To promote a fed’ral law
Building on the vision nursed
By our William Randolph Hearst.

Since that time, for many years,
Wars on drugs have played on fears.
They have injured me and you
More than drugs could ever do.
Letting cops smash down your door
While the gangsters profit more.
Pushing them, among the first
Was old William Randolph Hearst.