The Habit


I say “fuck you”, to all the warnings,
And the cancer pics on cigarette packs,
Everything about me is Joe,
Like that song on Cotton Eye Joe, knowing
That I’m just a John Doe,
To passers by and to a future coffin,
While my lungs turn to the common cold,
And then to a bout of Pneumonia,
And finally, irritation, inflammation, you name
It, I have it.

Oh, Fuck Everything, I’m just
Joe having a jolly old time, nicotine blowing
Through, and yet, I’m still envying Fidel
Holding a Cohiba Cuban, or Che Guvera, sitting
On a motorcycle, smoking yet another cigar.
How freedom here, on the Indian Ocean front,
Is not the same as making sweet love,
In sugar cane plantations,
Or dancing the salsa, or sipping a mojito.

Only a teeny-weeny cigarette,
That carries me like a hummingbird,
To a nightshade plant, for a brief interlude
Of sprightly nicotine, wondering how a smoke,
Makes you float, like a runaway kite,
Playing your windpipes, and yet still,
Isn’t a cigarette, to you toxic lips,
The only butt, worthy of a kiss.

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