Smokin'
The John Player Special comin’ down the line,
I cough and I retch like a veteran miner;
a nicotine fix clawin’ into my spine,
my lungs turnin’ black like a napalmed vagina.
A Number Six filter tipped dream of redemption,
eyes that are waterin’, red and inflamed;
tongue like a fish from a twilight dimension,
a heart so surreal that it oughta be framed.
Benson and Hedges, Rothman’s and Dunhill,
Marlboro, Capstan, Black Cat and Pall Mall;
emphesemic, sclerotic and terminally ill,
wondrous coffin nails I love you all.
I need my nicotine, tar-filled tobacco,
forty a day at the absolute least;
without the fags I’d go totally whacko,
I’ll just keep on smokin’ until I’m deceased:
which may not be too long thanks to you evil, capitalistic,
megacorporate, drug-pushing, death-dealing sons of...
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