Category Archives: Cigarette smoking

The Rolling Stones front man goes under the knife for a little bit of maintenance. Time waits for no man, Mick my boy.

Surgery For The Ol’ Devil.

Old Sir Mick just keeps on a’rolling,
Geriatric Mick prefers jiving to strolling,
But now, in his seventies his step’s begun to stutter
His high-living past has set his stony heart all a’flutter.

A dickey heart valve needs refurbishment
For Micks old ticker’s taken some punishment,
There’s no doubt when it comes to wear and tear
Micks plucky organ’s done more than its fair share.

Now the old pump is suffering from overuse,
But in Micks case it sure ain’t down to self abuse,
Cigarettes and bad habits have contributed to his current issues
But his old wives and girlfriends won’t be reaching for the tissues.

Notre Dame, you’ll be the ruination of me. Consider this a rather un-PC silly and frivolous french folly.

Merde Feu.

What a damnable shame,
Seeing grand old Notre Dame
Fired up and aflame.

Due to the fire
The ol’ Dame does require
A bigger better spire.

When the roof fell
It left Gods glorious citadel
Blazing like merry Hell.

With the roofs falling
The conflagration became, frankly appalling,
For the French, galling.

Above the gathering crowd
Arose a bitter Gauloises cloud-
Smoking oughtn’t be allowed.

One man, eyes a’stinging,
Amongst klaxons blaring, bells a’ringing,
Stands hunched, hands a’wringing.

Looking up to big brother.

Night Follows Day.

He stands looking out from the double wide,
Another restless night leaving him red eyed,
So tired of the weariness that’s bone deep,
But with a mind so wired it wouldn’t sleep.

Out in the damned desert he hears a coyote cry,
Yap-yapping at a thin sallow moon up in the sky,
Slowly the echo of its brainless baying trails away,
Just another mongrel that;s overspent its stay.

How the Hell did it all come to this?
When did all the hits begin to miss?
He looks up at the moon with a silent scream;
Fading away in El Mirage, living the bad dream.

Now how he bitterly recalls the rich life he’s tasted,
The days of skating through life permanently wasted,
No more rolling past the ladies, six pack taut and trim
And knowing they were lingeringly looking back at him.

The desert wind riffled through his sun streaked hair,
He turns to to face the cooling breeze- which ain’t there,
Here, even in the bleakness of the Arizona night
The desert offers no cold comfort, no respite.

He gives a cough and then coughs again,
He’d give his right hand to see a spit of rain,
He lifts that heavy hand, drags on his cigarette
And gazes through the haze with some regret.

He’s never been one for maudlin thought
But the nights are long and days are short,
So he silently flicks the but from his hand
And watches it spark and sputter in the sand.

Those damn Marlboros have left their mark,
He muses, peering out at a night so deep and dark,
He pulls a pack from the pocket of his shirt,
In light of the surgeons report, another sure won’t hurt.