When first you took a drag from cancer’s stick,
Your throat hurt.  Was that not a blatant sign?
So cool.  You wore the badge of societies clique,
Too young to care ’bout lungs or facial lines,
But soon the Devil found your psyche weak,
And cool became addiction and denial.
“Oh, I can quit today!” False words that reek,
And stain the air, destroying youth’s sweet smile.
You’re dying!  And your hair and clothing stink.
Society now says, “Go outside to smoke!”
Outside, alone, you must have time to think.
Your breath’s so weak, you cough until you choke.
What will it take? A coffin lined in black!
You want to live?  —Then toss the Devil’s pack!