First flame of rebellion
Cough of wrong
Tip ashing like laughs coming
The paper peels back
Like stress of mind
With each
P   U   F    F
Inhale
B    L          O      W

Smoke curls
And fans as beautifully
As the faces around you
Conversating in the cold
Intellect    Intelligence
Swavely sung as we **** on our sticks of
Death
Youth burning brighter
Than the ember incinerating the innards of
Our rolled false freedom
The night grows old
As our fingers feel the
Stinging heat
Of a bud burned out
As exhausted eyes blink
We tap our packs
And tuck them sweetly into pockets
As mothers to children
We leave one another with
An ancient bad taste dry on our tongues
Returning to our traditional lives
To complain the same as always
Until tomorow evening
Repeat
Repeat