What Exactly Do You Think You Are Smokin? Poem by Michael Gale

All is not right in the world...
At least not mine.
A zit has appeared middled upon my nose...
Nothing that distracts from a rosey red rose.

Does my nose knows it glows? ...
Does anyone know, it grows?
When'st i have to sneeze, it really blows...
Am i alone, while in my throws?

In front of a camera, i am shy and wish to not pose...
I only wish of my nose.
With a zit, i could successfully dispose...
Nobody knows.

That of my nose...
That is not as long as a gardening hose.
Mirrors need to crack and break...
A borrowed or stolen gaze to unknowingly take.

Watch as i hide away from mirrors unbroken...
No more heard of words poking fun at me and not silently unspoken.
Should i move to Spokane or perhaps even Hoboken? ...
Held deep to heart of rubbers for pokin'.

Jobs are left open for a racial minoritied token...
Reverse racial discrimination does not exist.
You must be literally jokin'? ...
What exactly do you think you are smokin?