The Smoker’s Discourse


The pffffft of a cigarette as it begins to glow,
Desiccating decibels of those that can comprehend so low,
Solo symphony seemingly sycophantic so reassuring to those out of the know
Fooling each other to breath in… hold… then blow,
Cancerous carcinogens cascading down below
Belie the toxins and the warm flow
A cigarette for the money, none for the show.
For what is it worth, if not for the while?
Lighting in chain links as if t’were going out of style,
But in style, isn’t that why we started?
Rules and butt calls as children we bartered,
To be seen in the scene of the cool and uncharted,
Innocent victims of a system cold-hearted,
But we bought into it, with the price split between us,
For a cigarette in hand would astound those that mean to demean us,
And time will see us with tubes intravenous,
Cold black lungs and a malfunctioning penis,
A Stenna stair lift to get us up the stairs,
For we can no longer walk uphill without the need for a chair,
And we can’t face the crisp, cold, winter air,
For the purity is a foreigner we now find so rare,
And the cough of early morning is a melodic delight,
When our lungs lunge forward and are locked so tight,
And only then do we seek some form of respite,
But of course, it’s too late; we are locked in this plight,
Nicotine replacement, gum and will power
Are, in truth, no good, when we face our final hour,
And we reach for that final smoke, and we do not have the power.
The look on the faces of your friends tells you you’re a coward,
A coward for not being master of your fate,
And not realizing your folly until ‘tis too late,
And so you are gone, lamented and missed,
But more will follow that the cigarette has kissed,
But will they fade the same way, or shall they raise a fist,
And defy the toxins of the grey mist?
Unlikely, for they too started young,
And are too cursed with the dreaded black lung,
And again, for them, no plasters or gum,
And no exercise either, for they can no longer run,
But they can hide from the reality of what is in store,
Just like you, and I, and so many more,
But can we still hide when we are sick, tired and sore,
Or can we stand up now and proclaim no more?
These are mere words, formations of thought,
Lamentations of the death into which I have bought,
‘Tis not the world of which I thought
Which at fourteen I so desperately sought
To be part of, and now I have been caught,
Ensnared with an addiction, the price I pay dearly,
But higher still is the price for those oh so near me,
For when I am dead I shall no longer suffer,
But it is a sin indeed to be outlived by ones mother,
For no mater should be in presence at her own son’s wake
But I fear it shall be so, and all for the sake
Of an expensive and revolting and childish mistake,
And one which we, all too many, make.