SMOKING AND BURNING IN THE NANNY STATE

Our fathers smoked

During the wartime years,

Grandfathers drew back

With toddlers on their laps.

At the football

Tobacco filled the air,

But it dispersed

When the crowd chose to clap.

And I lie here cut up,

Floating on pain,

All wounds bleeding,

Fiercely pierced,

And throbbing,

Each of them

Waiting their turn to exclaim

While my head swims,

Then sinks,

My brain bobbing.

Protect me from myself

And ease my hurt?

I dare you all,

You bands of smug wowsers,

With your sticky hands

In every pocket,

Your slack mouths

Sucking at petrol bowsers.

So put the sun

In plainly wrapped packets -

You stooges of post-modern crime’s rackets.