Strike a chord with this smoke, playing addiction
in a thin tune- call for a rematch; as the fire that
escapes my lungs are many exorcisms: buy me
a healing patch

Years afterwards; my voice thins out with time
like there’s helium in the air- all of the warning
signs written on the box; the very first few puffs
were a sign: a youngling’s toughen coughs

Inherit the habits of man’s old habits- the coal
miners who must have breathed ashes; those we
were quick to call a bunch of dumb *****- now
we’re the ones lost in the ashes of their past

Chimney throats; the tiny stick we all thought
would paint us boys into tomorrow’s men- then again,
not much of us will be old enough to see a tomorrow
by this cancer stick’s end. Oh, what a shame