Feb 2021
I open the attics window,
For I crave a cigarette,
I see trees,
Clothed in snow,
Under white dots,
That some call stars,
It is cold,
While cigarette clothes me,
And warms a poets heart
For I crave a cigarette,
I see trees,
Clothed in snow,
Under white dots,
That some call stars,
It is cold,
While cigarette clothes me,
And warms a poets heart
