Having a ciggi on the wall
Upon the wall of death I scowl,
where the City air is foul,
so what does it matter if I inhale
I'm going to die soon, anyhow.
The local factory joins in too
its chimneys billow smoke anew
that make the locals cough and spew,
while rushing by to catch the tube.
The wall's my death bed, truth be known
not comfortable or soft or warm
as all my lungs fill up with grime,
this city life's a bloody crime.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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