Cigarettes

Take a whiff of my fingers – it’s a maniacal pleasure,

Like I’ve been fingering the goddess of societal pressure.

And we’re all flies of a feather, tethered to piles of shit

So make excuses for yourself and tell your child to quit.

Now I would die for this bitch, and I’m just standing in line

Until I can lie in this ditch I’m digging one drag at a time.

This fag is designed

To grind grime deep and remind:

You seek and you’ll find

That not even the treatment’s benign.

So if you’re gonna die of cancer, put your hands in the air.

And I’m still waiting on my answer, but the chances are fair

That I’ll be transferred to care

To live and breathe a machine

And need to be cleaned

Still fiending for this evil routine.

But now I’m banished to a bench or curb to curb my cravings.

Light up a 20th pack to burn my savings.

Gone with a wisp of smoke,

Pissed and broke

With a million other victims in this twisted joke.

I gotta whisper, so listen close:

Kids, this blistered throat

Fits the gist of the list I wrote.

And I don’t wish to insist or scold

But yeah, I kissed and told

That this mistress is just as old

As any sickness that glistens gold

Sold on a plastic wrapper.

As a rapper, my ass is backwards,

This bastard is – gasping half-words.

Better wrap up this passage faster.

I got zero cigarettes left, count ’em up:

So now I couldn’t give a luck,

And I’m out of fuck.