Guilty Pleasure

It’s that one cigarette, I allow myself after the wife leaves for work. The sixteen-ounce coffee I walk to the corner Bodega for every day, I’m not supposed to drink, okay. Maybe throw a donut in there or buttered 'Everything Bagel' once in a while. It’s the skin flick I might watch in the middle of the day on pay-for-view. The three seven & seven I have at Jerry’s Bar & Grill when I meet up with the old gang from work on the third Tuesday of the month, rain or shine, when. One's, what I agree, I’d nurse all night. My guilty pleasures, it’s all the above, plus. To be honest with you. Probably a good bit more.