Dang cancer sticks
calling, calling to me,
I hate your smell and the wheeze in your smoke.
You make the danger seem sweet,
the hours longer between restless puffs.

Companions of sorrows that whisper in ears,
in **** rasps so that we cannot hear
the omens of ravens on packets of gold.

Adding addiction to the children of old,
luring in lies, delivering cures
of life for the living. Making it clear
that the world could be better
and longer, my dear.

Still they call to me, call to me
promising bliss.

It seems a lot of women
are married to handsome psychopaths
or sociopaths these days.
It's much the same thing, you know.

They always have a certain charm
of innocence. Often with a blond fringe
that needs cutting. People like them.
They are fun to be with.

But if you sit down for a while
and contemplate the crocodile,
one realises you only know the clever hide;
the reptile within plays with its food.

By then its prey has swum too deep
within the delta of the lies;
white-painted doors without a key
close in on her and she wonders:

is it me?