Thirsty Seven, 37

I have a chest of smoke and a heart of ashes; I have a breath that chocks and liver that burns; I have rolls of brown paper and an ashtray of choices These lungs are a hearth of nine hundred and eight cigarettes And now I have burnt out all my dreams. I have guts that fear and a mouth of lies, This tongue is a needle, living in a scabbard of flesh and bone. I have a palm of earth and eyes that hopes but This life is a winter of fates and other things I cannot change. My feet are bleeding ballpoints But I keep walking in circles and now this story has lost its plot. I have sockets of remorse and a pocket of a thousand nails A thousand nails to mend my broken big old pride.