The Life And Death Of A Cigarette Poem by Margaret Baker

If you smoke fourty cigarettes a day.
You won't feel life ebb away.
But slow and sure the signs are there
Brittle nails and greying hair
Don't make out, you do not care,
About wether it's right or wether it's fair.
The wrinkles sallow looks of age,
Which grow quickly for a weekly wage.
Your lung in pieces rotted away
The pain the hurt and the decay.
All this to be macho fan Looking
Good, but feeling wan. Then your
Dead, here no more rotten to
the inner core. To late to tell
Them what they've done. You have
Lost. The cigarettes have won.