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Nickirate
It is the Sunday after someone's birthday,
Similar to a Monday morning after a crawl about the lights.
I don't know if it's summer,
Yes it is summer as the fan sweeps again to the right.
The other bloke has decided to stop smoking on that someone's birthday,
He has continued to this morning.
Lozenges, lovely lozenges.
Cool, moist, lip-smacking nicorate lozenges.
He's going to sleep.
Hopefully,
As I have been feeding him beers for five years.
Before it was cigarettes.
But he has gone to sleep.
I hope he wakes up.
They usually wake up for awhile.
When they sample the lip-smacking lozenges.
And become a little nicorate.
I don't want to stop the puff,
But it is smelly,
And greasey,
Expensive, should that ever occur,
Or be forced to occur elsewhere.
Or told it should.
It would if it were able;
Be sweet, sincere, aromatic and gregarious.
But 'is light, warmth and stink instead.
As for brains,
I suppose I should be killed for another.
(c)R.H.Elliott 2003
