Have you ever seen a new born calf
Searching for its mother's teat, not by half
Frantic, desperate, cannot starve
There's nothing wrong with that
And have you been so cold and tired
A place to rest you deeply desired
With a warm and very blazing fire
There's nothing wrong with that
Have you been hungry, thirsty too
Or despairing of finding a loo
Shivering from being soaked right through
There's nothing wrong with that
But if you feel you cannot go on
Because you need to smoke a poison
Without it, all of your hope gone
There's something wrong with that
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Screw you, there's nothing wrong with that. If I need to smoke my death sticks, you're in no place to judge. There's nothing wrong with it. I worship cigarettes as Gods, and the damage they do to my health/body is sacred, and to be encouraged by others, as I'll encourage others to start. Being a smoking addict is a beautiful thing, every carton you buy comes with hope, and there's nothing wrong with poisoning yourself, as it's a beautiful thing - to become constantly sick, coughing non-stop, and one day dying, for obeying your sacred addiction.