Note: I wrote this little chestnut around my fifth or sixth attempt at quitting smoking… It was a failed attempt to scare myself out of the habit, but at least I got this poem out of it. It’s a giggle. Enjoy!!!

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Smokers’ Delight
by
Antwan Crump

His name was Henry, five-foot-five, 
a pudgy frame, and tired eyes. 
He often lied between his choking, 
smell will tell, he loved his smoking.  

Filtered or unfiltered roll,
Henry puffed then paid the toll, 
late for work and scent of coal, 
Henry huffed. No aim or goal, 
it’s just enough to quell his soul.

A filthy habit, he agreed, 
but every puff was what he’d need, 
to face the week with grace and speed, 
a cowboy and his crackling steeds. 
Nicotine–his soul relief. 
 
He couldn’t stand the stench of weed, 
and liquor made his urine bleed, 
with this excuse, he led his screed; 
“Tobacco makes the assholes flee.” 
The perfect plan at 9:03.
 
“He’s late, again!” 
“Just let him be.” 

The job was easy, mostly typing, 
phone calls, watercooler-griping. 
 
At the top of every hour,  
he’d step out to “fight the power.” 
 
He even got some rookies hooked, 
fresh air was for “salary-crooks.” 
Newbies puffed until they’d vomit, 
two tokes in, then most departed. 
 
Henry smelled like burning sores, 
tobacco from his widened pores. 
Because of him, the staff kept score. 
“Thank the Lord!” It’s 1:04. 

Lunch was always gruel and gravy, 
Henry had a bowel baby,
made for baking, not for storage, 
pants down, flop, plop
—Henry porridge. 

It’d rocket out like chunks of meat,  
then lift him up (about two feet). 
His bottom spilled the wet concrete, 
his gut released with weighted heat.
Corn and taters? Mash and beef?
Organic loss. Whole grain defeat.
 
Up again and feeling light, 
here came Henry’s biggest fright. 
The ladies’ room was right next door, 
and Henry’s ass would always ROAR. 

He sat back down and flicked the light; 
“I know, I know, it isn’t right.” 
Tobacco masks the scent of shame, 
“–and all those bitches know my name.”  
 
It was then that trouble came; 
“You asshole, Henry! You’re to blame!” 
An asshole, yes. And uncontained. 
Henry puffed, and porridge rained. 
 
“Disgusting!” was the lackey’s claim. 
“You chimney-folks are all the same.” 
“In my office, once you’re sane.” 
“Just a moment,” Henry strained. 
“Almost done. Just tummy pains.” 
 
The blue smoke danced beside the flame.  
The jig was up. No point in change.
Once again, he was arraigned.
Henry prayed. No savior came.

“You’ve been loyal,” said the boss.  
“But smokers bargain at a loss.” 
“No more lies and no more toking.”  
“There’s the door. Please quit your smoking.” 
 
“Well, this is a crappy day.” 
Five steeds left, and plenty saved.  
“I guess I’ll just go home and stay.” 
Then Henry left, no more to say. 
 
Four horses left and at his door, 
a tearful Henry hit the floor.
The notice read the word “EVICTION.” 
Beneath that: “FUCK YOUR ADDICTION!” 

He ripped the notice into shreds,  
then Henry stood and scratched his head.  
“They can’t stop me from lighting up.” 
He entered mumbling, “…such and such.” 
 
Hours passed with little fight.  
“I’ll just die in your arms tonight.” 
One stallion lit, ten cartons stacked, 
Henry puffed; lay on his back, 
hot tears spewed; he’s getting nervous.  
“They’ll all say that I deserved it.”
 
Empty cartons. Full provoking. 
Amber light grew from his stoking. 
Darkness filled his home, and hoping. 
“Mom will say to ‘stop the moping.‘”
Broke and broken. Cloaked in coping.
Grime and grievance–stoked and loping.

Death would be a fresh delight, 
“They said to quit, and they were right.” 

“No more judgment, jokes, or poking.” 
Fires grew untamed and bloating. 
Inhalation. Blissful floating. 
Then his thoughts began eroding– 
choking, coughing. Coughing. Choking. 

Flames caressed the ceiling tiles, 
ashes fell, then Henry smiled.
 
As he lay there, warm and toking, 
Henry spoke: “Thank God for smoking.” 

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