Smoke

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The dreaded white stick

Just dried leaves, with paper around,
Lighter is clicked, and crackling sound.
That first inhale, feeling of relief,
To stop them, gives you grief.

The cigarette pull, is so great,
Out on the town, with your mate.
When you wake, and before sleep,
In its grasp, it does keep.

After a meal, after a shock,
The non smokers, they do mock.
Life is arranged, around these things,
Like a chain, suffering it brings.

Then many ill's, people do say,
You should quit, do it today.
Do not quit, whilst people moan,
Cant wait until, your back home.

That little stick, and leaves inside,
Do no harm, to you lied.
One more puff, before work start,
Not a thought, about your heart.

Have a cold, you do hack,
When you do, draw smoke back.
Feel like death, still you smoke,
Even if it, makes you boke.

Doctors don't know, how could they,
Could cause harm, what they say.
This little thing, give such pleasure,
Hold on you, you can measure.

Then one day, you draw line,
No morning cig, don't feel fine.
You hang on, no meal cigarette,
Your body wont, let you forget.

But through day, the grip lightens,
Even though this, still does frighten,
One day past, didn't give in,
These little things, did not win.

Bad days come, and they go,
Still no smoke, do I show.
The little stick, held so tight,
That I lit, morn till night.

Now so long, has now past,
I managed it, resolve did last.
Weight I gained, but that's all,
I never faltered, did not fall.

Two thousand seven, third of July,
To my addiction, I said goodbye.
Never did falter, you can tell,
Foul morning taste, the yucky smell.

 
 
Copyright 1990 - 2013 Craig Wadner