Dying For a Smoke
It was vanity that killed him,
not the flames, nor acrid smoke.
If he had got out straight away,
they would have said, "What a lucky bloke."
But he stopped to put on his best PJ's,
which hung behind the door.
Chinese silk with a flower motif,
the collar and cuffs were velour.
Then he rummaged for his dressing gown,
which he saved for such occasions.
Again manufactured from natural silk,
and hand stitched by several Asians.
The flames were now licking under the door,
but he stopped to apply hair gel,
then searched through his drawers for deodorant,
and a spray of his favourite smell.
"Silly me," he thought as he dashed for the door,
"My breath must be really minging!"
and eventually found his mint mouthwash,
which set his mouth and gums a tingling.
A quick look in the mirror to check all was well,
then he deftly opened the door,
the landing and stairs were well alight,
and a big hole appeared in the floor.
"Looks like this is it," he thought with a sigh,
"my vanities done for me yet."
He sat back on the bed with a copy of Vogue,
and lit a Gauloises tipped cigarette.
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