Smoke And Mirrors Reflectiing Truth-hturT.

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Smoke And Mirrors Reflecting Truth.

©-MFB III

There are so many ways to die
from smoking cigarettes.

Whether you're in Berkley
or lost in the fog of Kent.


By a Lucky Strike which is
much slower than lightning.


One can grow all Misty eyed
at the thought of that great
hacker of life.


There was Eve who had her atoms
reduced to malignancies,
and Virginia who became much
slimmer since her cough.


There is little that is Kool
about lung cancer.


It is a Camel crossing
an airless desert,
with a hump pressing
on it's lungs.


It is a Newport, on an I.V.
as you bear the
brunt of the shunt,
carrying chemotherapy.


It was the Pall that set
over the Mall where
she used to work.


It's the small piece of land
where he lies buried
known as Chesterfield.


No one is immune,
They die in Parliament,
or Monte Carlo.
They languish in Raleigh
and Winston-Salem.


It was a Vice Roy
could not give up.


And Philip-Morris
became Philip-Morgued.


Many died without
Merit because you can't
take them with you.


Perhaps hell is non-smoking,
only the demons get to blow
your addiction in your face,

cackling at your eternal cravings.


There are so many brands
that burn a mark on your X-ray,
I have hit upon only a few.


Secondhand smoke is not
just what you exhale,
it is what's left in
your lungs, on your clothes
and on your skin.,
leaving you looking
battered and used.


Try sucking oxygen for
a few weeks,
it's not on the market yet,
but it will be,
when you are
gasping for breath,
it will be charged often

on your medical bills.


Print and hang this poem
near your ashtray,
as a reminder to
leave it empty,
lest someday soon
they empty your ashes
into what you urn,
from that yearn

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