Last week I quit the smoking
Because my lungs were on the brink.
For years I've been afflicted,
With a knowing I'm addicted,
To each and every single toke,
Each circumstance that they'd permit.
On the lash
I'm out, I smoke
In sheep-pen zones, filled with
Two-bit whores.
Monotony could make you choke -
Or at least splutter half a lung.
Every night's so-so; alright,
Laced with cloudy lovelines -
All contrite.
And all mixed up;
Billowing in a boozy fervour,
For we were all far too close together.
So I'm sat here now
In unwashed jeans,
My back pocket full of papers.
Extracting. Crumpling.
Throwing rizlas one by one
I always knew she loved me not.
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