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A Hell's Kitchen resident emails to report that on her walk across 43th Street to work each morning she often notices a certain sweet aroma as she passes the Times Building. She put together a bit of doggerel announcing her finding and speculating on its cause, which we pass on to you now:

On 43rd Street outside the Grey Lady's lair
The sweet smell of ganja fills the air

Each morning and eve as I walk by
I wonder who it is getting their high

Perhaps it is Campbell or Jennifer 8
Getting one last puff before they're late?

We can't say we agree with her prognosis — Mlle. Huit has always struck us as far too high-strung to be a stoner, and Mr. Robertson must somehow keep himself awake through countless mediocre plays, which is nearly impossible even when sober. But we thought it important to run this poem regardless. One would hate to discourage an incipient Leon Freilich.