you tell me not to smoke
and then pull out a sleek
slender white pole
stuffed with nicotine
and tar
and carbon monoxide
ammonia, acetone, arsenic and lead
containing a multitude of things
that are bad for you
things you'd find in the bleach
you use to clean the bathroom with
and for the billionth time I'll say
don't smoke
and I'll whisper it to you
as you lay in bed
teeth yellow
voice dead
and in five years
when you get terminal lung cancer
you'll say
don't be a smoker
and I'll shrug and say
I won't
and watch you die slowly
with a cigarette
hanging out of your lip
like a dog
within reach of it favourite bone
but too weak
to fetch it
and when the final white cloud
escapes raggidly
from the holes in your lungs
you'll sigh
and watch the light go out
and the embers of the ashes
fall to the tray
a final tap
a final trap
just one more
you'll whisper
right before you die
fog clouding your judgement
smoke hiding your eyes
sad like hooded light
coming from the end
of your final cigarette fight,
will at last
come Death, and all its might