Ventolin Inhaler Or Christ
For more than forty years my pistol
And - trust - me - in the dark like a pistol,
Sadly competing with my loved Christ,
Mostly after quaffed Stout cruelly iced!
Years back wore the look of Machine gun,
When it stopped ripe deaths from crazy fun:
The times I’d dared wrestle with Rothmans
Also with Menthols raunchy romance;
Once in my bag wouldn’t feel luckless
As it kept licensing The Reckless
The Asthmatic: An Idol Worshipper
My Dream Business: Inhaler’s Shipper.
Till date smuggles it into a church
Christ’s priests won’t see it, unless they search.
If my mum were alive, she’d slap me;
Would it – I know - reserve like Hot Tea
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