Out of cigarettes,
What will I do?
I am out of cigarettes:
Cancer sticks, bogies, ciggies,
Death's fingers.
The delectable, delicious
80 millimeter treat
That spreads so much
Disease and filth through my
Body, I can't help myself-
As a human, I am already
Filled with feces and stench
And rot.
If I'm gonna be like that, why not
Be the best?
I want to enjoy my dying.
At least this way,
Death will take me with nerves
Calm.
She might even laugh,
Because I'll be holding her smoking finger
Between my thumb and index finger.
Joke's on us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem