Burt Poole (2/19/1923 - 5/16/2012 / North Carolina)
None are quite as strange as those,
who blow out smoke from mouth and nose.
While present in a public place,
the smoke enshrouds the poor soul’s face.
And then it drifts throughout the room—the breath of death, a dose of doom.
Or, in their cars with windows tight,
they puff away with great delight.
Relaxed, they smell the sweet aroma,
then Rest In Peace with carcinoma.
They say it’s worth the price they pay,
inhaling smoke that’s white and grey.
Our running noses, watery eyes,
are more than mere imagination,
this comes from smoke contamination!
They have their rights, we all agree;
we want them happy, want them free.
But while those suckers get their break,
our chance is blown, our lives they take.
Comments about this poem (Fuming by Burt Poole )
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