As I take this cigarette
my life goes up in smoke,
in clouds of gray and white
some day I'll die of stroke.

If only I could quit
this habit that I have,
my lungs would never rot
all cancerous and scabbed.

And though I know this all,
to my love I still return,
for nicotine I crave for nicotine I yearn.

Take this poem to heart,
and let thy cigarette go,
for dying of lung cancer
is the slowest death I know.