Imagine having to take medicine every morning, every night
A bitter tasting medicine, not something for delight
If you didn't take it, your hair would all fall out
You'd be marked with an itchy, blotchy rash, your knees'd be full of gout
Your digestion would stop digesting, your heart no longer pump
And from the middle of your head would grow a large, unsightly lump
You had to take this medicine every hour that you could
I think that you'd resent it, I really think you would
And yet you're quite happy to keep on smoking every minute of the day
Even though this smoking doesn't help you in any way
It doesn't stop unsightly lumps or your hair falling out in alarming clumps
Does not prevent a blotchy rash, just costs you lots of needed cash
Can you please explain to me
Why you don't want to become free
From a disgusting, filthy, nasty weed
That your body does not need
(Sydney, Australia - 2003)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'll explain for you: I hate the idea of being free, I'd much rather be in smokey chains. You're wrong, my body does need it, my lungs cry for smoke every waking second, and the more I smoke, the happier they are. A short life is better than one without cigarettes.