Tilted towards the horizon
You sail along the vast curve
Just in front of the horizon
Meanwhile the ashtray remains empty
No really, truly
Not once in the last thirteen years
Yet who knows of tomorrow
Wow that Coca-Cola tastes good
And so I imagine would
Being sat here, with a king-size
Peter Stuyvesant filter tip
Oh how much safer is nicotine
Via the imagination, or as a cast-off
From my neighbouring table
A couple in full-on drag and blow
How then to become addicted
To passive smoking, other than
Trawling the pavement cafés of
Paris, or Brussels, or Amsterdam
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