Smokin'

The John Player Special comin’ down the line, I cough and I retch like a veteran miner; a nicotine fix clawin’ into my spine, my lungs turnin’ black like a napalmed vagina. A Number Six filter tipped dream of redemption, eyes that are waterin’, red and inflamed; tongue like a fish from a twilight dimension, a heart so surreal that it oughta be framed. Benson and Hedges, Rothman’s and Dunhill, Marlboro, Capstan, Black Cat and Pall Mall; emphesemic, sclerotic and terminally ill, wondrous coffin nails I love you all. I need my nicotine, tar-filled tobacco, forty a day at the absolute least; without the fags I’d go totally whacko, I’ll just keep on smokin’ until I’m deceased: which may not be too long thanks to you evil, capitalistic, megacorporate, drug-pushing, death-dealing sons of...