A full pack of twenty, oh what joy
Now down to nineteen, I still feel buoyed
There's now eighteen of the precious white sticks
But who's counting, they're really not worth a nick
Seventeen left, still quite a few to go
Seventeen sticks of poison, that's quite a show
Down to sixteen now, a small hole starts to appear
Sixteen of the precious white sticks I hold so very dear
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven
I now no longer feel that I am in heaven
Because I barely have left now more than half a pack
Of those little white sticks which keep me on the rack
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four
Now is when you'll see me walking out the door
To buy some more cigarettes, I cannot go too low
For I must always see the end of a cigarette glow
Cigarette addiction is very much a counting game
But to count something of no value is a real, real shame
Because a false value to it will be given
And counting the blasted things is now what keeps me driven
Sydney, Australia
Copyright (c) 2003 Alessandra Liverani
(Sydney, Australia - 2003)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love that game, and thanks for reminding me, I need to spend the rest of my money on cigarettes, as I'm nearly out of them.