Old Nic is a tick
He'll make us sick,
A habit that's hard to kick,
He has us licked,
From life's enticements we have our pick,
But we will be tied body and soul to old Nic.
Nic is a slicker
With him we'll be a sticker!
As though our body his poison flickers
Exhilarating our pulse quicker and quicker,
As addiction's cord grows thicker and thicker,
We get sicker and sicker.
The lungs are black,
Fresh fleshy pink color, they lack,
Their natural vitality will never come back,
Grime, tar, and nicotine sold in pretty colored packs.
Crooks took our money and health,
Destroying us, enriching themselves,
Selfishly pursuing infectious wealth.
When we were young and life was spring,
We'd try anything
To satisfy youth's impetuous wing,
Making youthful spirits sing,
When friends would bring
Cigars, chewing tobacco, any new thing,
To hide and imbibe in that secret shed,
Where adolescent curiosity is fed-
Nasty nicotine wheezing through our heads.
Feeling so mature, aspired adulthood almost obtained,
Not noticing a thin thread,
Growing to tie and bound,
Addictions cord wildly winding round and round,
To pound a chain into our brains,
Until the desire for nicotine becomes ingrained!
Youthful memories, the tear smeared years
Of immaturity caught in my adolescent fears,
Listening to my mother cough and hack,
As she smoked pack after pack,
At 50 years old she faced her problems bold,
Thirty years of one continuous cold.
That persistent habit, day after day,
Nic is there at work and play,
He holds our free spirit a bay
As his inhaling and exhaling rhythm sway,
An inner voice is heard to say,
"You must find a way to break that chain today."
Cut, pound, chisel- try as we may,
Nic's strong addictive properties cause delay.
We must bring our inner most will into the melee
Until the soul's divine power breaks the chain away!
Praise the lord, we are finally free
From Nic's life draining fee.
Though internal and external strife,
We manage to improve our lives,
Now, we have it licked,
That nasty habit is joyfully kicked.
But we must take care not to be slicked,
By our self-assurance we may be tricked.
By his slaves, Nic's smoke is shed,
They float in the air like spider webs.
Waiting for a bus we wanting to cuss
And fuss as his smoke spurts out like pus.
Second hand smoke is everywhere.
So we must take care, and beware
That he does not snare us into his lair!
Then our freedom would end,
And he would have us again!