Thank You For Not SmokingHe’s sitting, he’s waiting, Claustrophobia’s setting. His fingers, are itching, Moving, their twitching, For a feel of a cigarette in.Thank You For Not Smoking
He’s burning, he’s yearning, Throat practically choking, But the sign on the wall says, “Thank you for not smoking.”
The minutes seem so crass, They’re mocking his problem. He wishes it’d be over, There’s no end and, moreover, Time seemed to have stopped then. He’s burning, he’s yearning, For that Nicotine token, But the sign on t
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All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies.
-Bokonon
My poetry tends to sound like inappropriately long and personal hallmark cards except without the sense of occasion.
My prose is shallow and pedantic.
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