Eighth One
Clipper smoke,
Deep breath facefirst to hard wind,
I need no confession to know how bad I've sinned.
I feel just like a snowflake adrift
– Nothing else I can give.
Fast burn,
Frozen rock before it goes ash,
For you I've saved the the real ones in my pocket cache.
You'll have to pardon me my thrift
– Nothing else I can give.
Shelter, that's something I'm not after
So I can keep this thing lit.
And if I don't, what would it matter?
Nothing to us, wouldn't it?
Dead drag,
Back home from where I came,
Where all the sleet and hail lines up to take aim.
I can't say how and won't say if
– Nothing else I can give.
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Makes me feel the ache enough to about want to pick up the smoking habit. Some vices are worth the damage, are they not? This one breathes fire, even if you’ve nothing else to give it than that.