Dang cancer sticks
calling, calling to me,
I hate your smell and the wheeze in your smoke.
You make the danger seem sweet,
the hours longer between restless puffs.

Companions of sorrows that whisper in ears,
in **** rasps so that we cannot hear
the omens of ravens on packets of gold.

Adding addiction to the children of old,
luring in lies, delivering cures
of life for the living. Making it clear
that the world could be better
and longer, my dear.

Still they call to me, call to me
promising bliss.