Light up the tip and watch it burn anew,
tobacco smoke so pure and white hot blue.
Flavors so dense the mouth can chew,
relief from the pain and stain of life we knew.
To sit and ponder every breath seems taboo.
But what else is there to contemplate or do?
So it makes no sense to read your silly review,
this glorious stoge in my hand you give a 91 or 2.
So the little bastard who knocked my teeth in
decides to sit down and snack on the blessings
of my generous purse with shiny fork and spoon.
Thou shalt not steal but this devious soul has done
the bidding of his masters and brought shame to
the house of heaven from which he calls home.
Nothing I can do but sit and watch from afar as
he cuts his New York Strip from the bone and
forks a large piece between braced teeth and tongue.
He smiles with a mouth of metal and all I can think
is the redeeming thought that Jesus is going to hell.
In line for the grub of unknown origins
I whip out my wallet to pay for the privilege
of dining with the misfit toys of Easter Island.
Between my fingers the crisp bill flickers to
the florescent lights of garden green and gold.
Behind me I look and see the flowing robes of
a desert monk with curled brown hair in his eyes.
“What the hell do you want?” I ask this strange man.
With the strength of Ali he knocks my front teeth
down my throat and snags the paper from the air.
“The special” he says with a wink and a smile.
Six miles downwind lie the dead souls
who dared stand before your putrid stench.
Beyond fly burnished bats as fruity faraway trolls
trample through the locks to quench
their impossible thirst for fresh buttered rolls.
Shampoo is not for you who turns wrench
on oneself and strips the screws from scrolls
written and read by three-fingered French
friars of the underground smellastic holes.