The Rebel

John Brown’s body lies a’moulderin’ while the Winstons keep a ‘smolderin’

in the lungs of those deceived by the promise of instant maturity.

And when Johnny comes marchin’ home again, hurrah, hurrah,

he will have known--too late--the consequences of his thirty-year’s war with the common cough,

sometimes known as the cigarette hack.

                                                 Commuting

Strapped in, coercing accommodation, I commute.

Strapped in, I dream. No commutation.

The chamber deadens as the pellet drops and the single whiff searches for the breath I hold in vain.

Strapped in, I wake, unaccustomed.

The chamber now is filled with smoke from someone else’s cigarette.

Strapped in, cursing accommodation, I commute.

                                         Thoughts from a Hole in the Ground

Let your fingers do the talking with their orange-yellow stain,

and your feet can do the thinking with the brains that still remain.

Your lungs can do the praying ere the surgeon takes his cut,

and your heart can whisper hoarsely that, yes, he loves you, but

                    your will, insistent, stating that this habit can’t he kicked,

keeps daily losing power while its wounds are daily licked

with nicotine and tars and toxins run amuck,

and ads that keep promoting, keep telling you to suck.

“Suck a Tutti-Frutti, Pasteurized and filter-blend.

Enjoy the stale tobacco, all your trouble’s at an end.”

Let your nose do all the list’ning. Turn it down and hear me out.

Accept the foul language expended here-with-out.

It’s not the free expression of your rights herein denied,

it’s control the weed exerts over mind, I won’t abide.

So, allow your soul a searching, there is a brighter taste

that lies outside the realm of life you puff away in haste.

Note:  As long as you've come this far, there's another button if you'd rather not go back yet.  

BACK